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ExLibn^-.  HAKRY  C.  JAA\E5 

CAMP-FIRE  VERSE 


CAMP-FIRE    VERSE 


CHOSEN    BY 

WILLIAMS    HAYNES 

AND 

JOSEPH    LeROY    HARRISON 

WITH   AN    INTRODUCTION    BY 

STEWART  EDWARD  WHITE 


NEW  YORK 

DUFFIELD  &  COMPANY 

1919 


Copyright,   1917,  by 
DuFriELD  &  Co. 


TO 

ROBERT  J.  CARLISLE 

AND 

JOHN  WARREN  ACHORN 


IN  CAMP 

From  exile  to  my  kingdom  I  return, 

To  winds  and  waters,  councillors  of  mine, 

My  treasure, — yonder  lake  where  sunsets  burn, 
My  palace  roof, — the  blue  above  yon  pine. 

—Robert  Gilbert  Welsh 


INTRODUCTION 

Up  to  about  twenty  or  twenty-five  years  ago  the 
man  interested  in  out-of-door  sports  and  pastimes 
was  looked  upon  with  gentle  tolerance  by  his  more 
industrious  brethren.  The  fisherman  was  a  loafer 
or  a  gentle  ne'er-do-well;  the  shooter  was  a  good 
sort,  but  not  likely  to  get  on ;  golf  was  tolerated,  but 
only  as  a  Sunday  expedient.  The  man  who  would 
venture  to  shorten  his  business  hours  for  the  sake 
of  playing  such  a  game  would  have  been  looked  upon 
with  such  commercial  disgust  by  his  fellow-business 
men  that  his  failure  would  have  been  pretty  well 
assured.  A  good  number  of  men  went  camping 
every  year,  but  they  did  not  say  very  much  about 
it.  They  were  not  especially  ashamed  of  it,  but 
neither  did  they  consider  the  fact  worthy  of  adver- 
tisement. The  amateurs  knew  very  little  of  the 
methods  of  proper  camping.  In  the  light  of  modem 
specialization  the  few  books  written  on  the  subject 
seem  very  crude  and  inefficient — always  excepting 
old  Nessmuk. 

But  in  the  nineties  a  change  crept  over  the  face 


viii  INTRODUCTION 

of  public  approval.  Came  a  certain  school  of 
writers  who  pointed  out  that  the  joy  of  the  sheer 
physical  life  in  the  open  brought  rewards  that  no 
other  kind  of  life  could  bring.  The  reaction  from 
overstrained  hurriedncss  of  business  life  was  about 
due,  and  this  new  school  of  poetry  and  fiction  and 
essays  climbed  a  tree  of  tendency  whose  fruit  was 
already  ripe. 

And  since  that  day  a  sane  and  steady  appreciation 
of  nature  in  the  open  has  become  more  and  more  a 
part  of  our  every-day  and  normal  life.  In  igoo  I 
traveled  for  four  months  in  the  Sierra  Nevada 
Mountains  with  pack-animals,  and  in  that  time  met 
only  one  other  party  out  like  myself  for  the  pleasure 
of  the  open.  In  1910  the  mountains  had  become  so 
trampled  over  by  lovers  of  the  high  countries  that 
it  was  difficult  to  find  horse-feed  anywhere  near  the 
trail.  Hundreds  of  people  who  never  have  con- 
sidered for  a  moment  that  it  was  possible  for  them 
either  to  get  away  from  their  business,  or,  having 
got  away,  to  take  care  of  themselves  in  primitive 
circumstances,  had  discovered  that  both  things  were 
feasible  and  were  enjopng  the  new  discovery.  And 
also  outside  of  the  mountains  it  would  seem  that 
half  of  California  is  in  the  open.  For  a  month  or 
so  in  the  spring  of  the  year  every  head  of  the  family 
who  owns  the  "jitney,"  a  butcher  deli  very- wagon, 
and  in  some  cases  even  a  wheelbarrow,  piles  in  his 
duffle  and  hies  forth  along  the  highways  to  gipsy 


INTRODUCTION  ix 

it  under  the  open  skies.  This  is  true,  although  per- 
haps not  to  so  great  an  extent,  all  over  the  United 
States.  People  are  not  only  discovering  the  delights 
of  open  nature,  but  they  are  finding  that  she  is  not 
nearly  as  formidable  as  they  had  supposed.  The 
essentials  of  comfortable  life — food,  shelter,  warmth 
— are  not  as  difficult  to  compass  as  the  sheltered 
life  had  caused  them  to  fear.  And  as  for  golf  and 
similar  sports,  there  can  certainly  be  no  need  to 
elaborate  the  thesis.  Any  business  man  who  is  not 
off  at  least  one  or  two  afternoons  of  the  week  is 
now  looked  upon  askance  by  his  confreres  as  likely 
to  crack  up  and  so  be  a  total  loss  in  his  business 
world. 

All  this  tremendous  change  has,  of  course,  found 
its  expression  as  well  as  its  lead  in  literature.  The 
"sportsman's  library"  has  become  more  than  a 
"five-foot  shelf."  There  are  books  of  specialization 
down  to  the  minutest  hair  of  the  smallest  whisker 
of  the  littlest  animal.  There  are  books  also  dealing 
with  the  broad  aspects  of  the  out-of-door  world  as 
a  beautiful  and  friendly  thing. 

A  volvime  such  as  this  should  have  its  honored 
place  on  such  a  shelf.  The  last  expression  of  what 
lies  deep  within  a  man's  breast  usually  takes  the 
form  of  poetry.  When  a  general  movement  or 
tendency  of  any  kind  gets  to  the  point  of  expressing 
itself  In  verse,  it  has  then  truly  become  a  part  of 
human  life;    perusing  the  typical  and  beautiful  ex- 


X  INTRODUCTION 

pressions  of  this  tendency  into  this  book,  the  reader 
cannot  but  be  struck  by  the  difference  of  that  ex- 
pression before  and  after  the  nineties.  The  earHest 
poems  are  rather  like  the  conventional  paintings  on 
a  French  fan.  They  are  cast  in  perfect  lines. 
They  express  truly  a  deep  feeling,  but  they  have  not 
yet  acquired  a  distinctive  form  of  their  own.  They 
are  timid,  restrained:  one  feels  back  of  them  a  semi- 
apologetic  attitude  for  caring  for  such  things  at  all. 
You  are  exhorted  to  believe  that  things  are  not 
quite  as  bad  as  they  might  be.  You  are  gently  led 
to  contemplate  the  fact  that  even  enthusiasm  about 
such  matters  is  not  unworthy  a  serious  person.  It 
is  pointed  out  that  classic  forms  suit  the  subject 
perfectly,  and  the  privilege  is  left  you  of  dusting  off 
your  boots  and  returning  to  the  comfortable  fireside 
immediately  the  little  excursion  is  finished.  You 
are  apt  to  have  been  wearing  "Lincoln  green"  and 
a  feather  in  your  cap  at  that.  But  with  Kipling's 
Feet  of  the  Young  Men  as  a  sort  of  dividing  line, 
later  verse  talces  an  entirely  new  attitude  and  you 
don  your  khaki.  It  has  a  free,  joyous,  confident 
swing,  as  when  one  plunges  from  the  highroad  into 
the  unbroken  thicket.  It  does  not  care  a  whit  for 
classic  form.  Often  it  makes  its  own  form.  It 
has  even  a  little  arrogance  all  of  its  own.  And  the 
best  of  it  has  a  wind  blowing  through  it  that  con- 
tains no  taint  of  coal  smoke. 
And  there  is  this  late  and  final  difference.     The 


INTRODUCTION  xi 

earlier  type  calls  upon  one  for  to  look  and  for  to 
admire :  the  latter  kind  contains  an  inspiration  and 
an  urge  to  come  and  do  likewise. 

Stewart  Edward  White 

BURLINGAME,    CaL. 

August  27,  1917 


PREFACE 

In  compiling  this  anthology — the  first  American 
attempt  to  make  a  representative  collection  of  camp- 
ing and  hunting  verse — we  have,  like  all  pioneers, 
enjoyed  certain  advantages  and  labored  under  pe- 
culiar difficulties.  In  blazing  a  trail  through  mod- 
em sporting  poetry,  however,  we  have  held  fixed 
before  us  an  ideal. 

A  double  test  has  guided  us  in  our  selections  for 
this  volume.  We  have  tried  to  exclude  all  poems 
not  conceived  in  the  true  spirit  of  the  sportsman 
and  to  include  no  poems  devoid  of  literary  merit. 
Accordingly,  some  beautiful  poems,  sure  of  their 
place  in  literature,  have  been  omitted  as  poetry 
rather  of  the  library  lamp  by  the  study  fireplace 
than  of  the  crackling  camp-fire  beneath  the  stai"s; 
and  some  verse,  very  true  in  its  sporting  spirit,  has 
been  discarded  as  doggerel. 

We  have  wanted  to  make  the  collection  repre- 
sentative of  all  "camp-fire  sports,"  and  in  the  fol- 
lowing pages  are  poems  of  big-game  hunting,  of 
upland  shooting,  of  water  fowling;  poems  of  camp- 
ing, of    canoeing,  of  exploring;    poems  of   Maine, 


xiv  PREFACE 

the  North  Country  and  the  Adirondacks,  of  Canada 
and  the  Northwest,  of  the  Plains  and  the  Rockies, 
of  the  alkali  deserts  and  the  frozen  Northland,  and 
a  few  poems  of  sport  in  foreign  game  fields. 

Since  the  old  Badminton  collection  no  complete 
anthology  of  sport  has  appeared.  Not  only  do  the 
forms  and  customs  of  sport  change,  but  the  very 
spirit  of  the  sportsman  is  tempered,  and  so,  even  dis- 
regarding the  differences  between  the  British  and 
American  points  of  view,  there  is  a  place  for  an 
American  collection  of  sporting  poetry.  We  hope, 
therefore,  to  follow  this  volimie  with  others  of  this 
Verse  of  the  Open  Series,  each  one  devoted  to  the 
verse  of  some  allied  sports,  making  a  set  that  will  be 
a  complete  American  sporting  anthology. 

We  are  indebted  to  the  following  authors,  pub- 
lishers and  magazines  for  their  permissions  to  reprint 
in  this  volume  copyrighted  poems,  courtesies  that 
we  appreciate  and  acknowledge  gratefully: 

Houghton,  Mifflin  Co.,  Dickens  in  Camp  from 
Bret  Harte's  Collected  Works;  The  Ruffed  Grouse 
from  Frank  Bolles'  Choconias  Tennants  (1895);  two 
poems  by  Arthur  Chapman  from  Out  Where  the 
West  Begins  (19 17). 

Small,  Maynard  &  Co.,  two  poems  by  Holman 
Day  from  Up  in  Maitie  (1900). 

Frederick  A.  Stokes  Co.,  The  Hunter's  Song  by 
John  Vance  Cheney  from  Thistledrift  (1S87)  and  The 
Himter  iroinPocnis  by  Josepliine  Daskam  (1903). 


PREFACE  XV 

G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons,  the  poems  by  Dr.  Drum- 
mond,  and  Boating  up  the  Oswegatchie  from  Louis 
V.  Randolph's  Survivals  (1900). 

Dodd,  Mead  &  Co.,  the  darky  poem  from  Paul 
Lawrence  Dunbar's  Lyrics  of  the  Hearthside  (190 1). 

Charles  Scribner's  Sons,  the  poems  from  Robert 
Louis  Stevenson's  Collected  Works  and  To  the  Gods 
of  the  Country  by  Maurice  Hewlett  from  Helen 
Redeemed. 

Barse  &  Hopkins  for  the  poems  of  Robert  W. 
Service. 

John  Lane  Co. ,  Sleeping  Out  from  Collected  Poems 
(1915)  by  Rupert  Brooke. 

Atlantic  Monthly,  The  Decoy  Duck  by  Mercy 
Baker. 

Forest  and  Stream,  Felter's  A  Summer  Song, 
Whipple's  The  Old  Hunter's  Day  Dream,  Stew- 
art's Hunter's  Paradise,  and  Willdy's  Forest 
Solitude. 

McClure's  Magazine,  To  a  Wood  Path  by 
Florence  Wilkinson. 

Munsey's  Magazine,  Canoe  Song  of  the  North 
by  Chester  Firkins. 

Recreation,  Barley's  Little  Lake  of  Azure,  Heim- 
bach's  Love  of  the  Open,  Pinkerton's  Portage  Trail, 
Judith  Dudley's  Gypsy  Song. 

Field  and  Stream,  Pitt's  Romance  Trail,  Staff's 
The  Camp-tire  Club,  Bliss  Carman's  Camping  Song, 
Gordon  Johnstone's  two  poems. 


xvi  PREFACE 

Overland  Monthly,  The  Lone  Land's  Lure  and 
Song  of  the  Camp  by  Chart  Pitt. 

Outing,  the  two  poems  by  C.  L.  Oilman  and  the 
poems  by  WiUiam  Aubrey,  Harry  M.  Dean,  Cora 
Fenton,  Thomas  Foster,  WiUiam  Tyler  Olcott,  L.  R. 
Sarett,  Le  Roy  Tufts,  and  Charles  Turner. 

Edwin  Tappan  Adney,  his  poems  from  Outing. 

Irving  Bacheller  for  Him  an'  Me  from  Harper's 
Weekly. 

Robert  Bridges  for  Progress  in  the  Rangeleys  from 
Collier's  Weekly  and  Roosevelt  in  Wyoming 
from  Bramble  Brae  (Scribners,  1902). 

Stephen  Chalmers  for  Rebellion  from  The  Gliding 
Star  and  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  from  The  Penny 
Piper  of  Saranac  (Houghton,  Mifflin,  19 16). 

Alexander  Nicolas  De  Menil  for  his  poem  The 
Panther's  Trail. 

Henry  H.  Knibbs  for  the  three  poems  from  his 
Songs  of  the  Outlands  (Houghton,  Mifflin,  19 14). 

Ernest  McGafTey  for  his  three  poems  from  various 
magazines. 

Edmond  S.  Meany  for  the  two  poems  from 
Mountain  Camp  Fires  (Lowman  &  Hanford). 

Andrew  F.  Underbill  for  his  poem  The  Canoe 
Song  of  the  Jocko  River,  hitherto  unpublished. 

Rudyard  Kipling  and  his  American  publishers, 
Doubleday,  Page  &  Co.,  for  The  Feet  of  the  Young 
Men  from  The  Five  Nations. 


PREFACE  xvii 

To  L.  C.  Page  &  Co.,  the  three  poems  by  Charles 
G.  D.  Roberts  from  Poems  (1903). 

Grateful  acknowledgement  is  made  here  of  the 
help  we  have  received  in  our  search  for  suitable 
poems  from  Mr.  Albert  Britt,  editor  of  Outing; 
Dr.  William  Bruette,  editor  of  Forest  and  Stream; 
Mr.  Edward  Cave,  editor  of  Recreation,  and  from 
Mr.  Warren  H.  Miller,  editor  of  Field  and  Stream. 
We  also  want  especially  to  thank  Mr.  White,  who 
has  not  only  written  the  Introduction  for  this  book 
but  also  has  made  valuable  suggestions  for  its 
contents. 

Williams  Haynes 
Joseph  Le  Roy  Harrison 
Northampton,  Mass. 
August  4,  1 91 7 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

Adams,  James  Barton 

The  Hunter  in  Camp 31 

Adney,  Edwin  Tappan 

The  Moose  Call 43 

Anderson,  Dimcan 

Sport 184 

Anonymous 

"Joy  to  Thee,  My  Brave  Canoe" 38 

The  Joys  of  Fowling 87 

The  Old  Hunting  Coat 212 

With  the  Mallard  Drake 112 

Aubrey,  William 

Hit  the  Trail 161 

Bacheller,  Irving 

Him  an'  Me 192 

Baker,  Mercy  E. 

The  Old  Decoy  Duck 177 

Bashford,  Herbert 

Morning  in  Camp     . 188 

Baylis,  Samuel  Matthewson 

The  Coureur-de-Bois 53 

Bolles,  Frank 

The  Ruffed  Grouse 204 

Braley,  Berton  * 

The  Little  Lake  of  Azure 72 

Brandreth,  Henry 

Away!  to  the  Woodlands  Away! 55 


XX  CONTENTS 

PACK 

Bridges,  Robert 

Progress  in  the  Rangeleys 48 

Roosevelt  in  Wyoming 168 

Brooke,  Rupert 

Sleeping  Out 137 

Carman,  Bliss 

A  Camping  Song 15 

A  Vagabond  Song 104 

Chalmers,  Stephen 

Rebellion 233 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 1 35 

Chapman,  Arthur 

Men  in  the  Rough 214 

Out  Where  the  West  Begins 39 

Cheney,  John  Vance 

The  Hunter's  Song 76 

Clarke,  Frederic  Colbum 

The  Wail  of  the  Guide 34 

Clemons,  W.  Harry 

The  Camp-fire 226 

Coburn,  Wallace 

The  Stampede 170 

Colt,  LeBaron  C. 

Sylvan  Seductions 46 

Cornish,  G.  J. 

Come  to  the  Woods 124 

Daskam,  Josephine 

The  Hunter 95 

Day,  Holman  P. 

The  Song  of  the  Wood's  Dog-watch 58 

Dean,  Harry  M. 

Have  You? 77 

De  Menil,  Alexander  Nicolas 

The  Panther's  Trail 40 


CONTENTS  xxl 

PAGE 

Diedin,  Thomas 

The  Double  Barrel ^  .     153 

-D     mmond,  William  Henry 

' '  Autumn  Days .     202 

Little  Bateese 129 

■  Little  Lac  Grenier 119 

My  "Leetle  Cabane" 221 

Dudley,  Judith 

Gypsy  Song 79 

Dunbar,  Paul  Lawrence 

Darky  Hunting  Song 180 

Edgar,  James  D. 

Canadian  Camping  Song 162 

Egerton-Warburton,  R.  E. 

The  Ball  and  the  Battue 198 

Farrington,  Frank 

A  Camping  Song 57 

Falter,  William 

A  Summer  Song 127 

Fenton,  Cora  D. 

The  Call 51 

Firkins,  Chester 

The  Canoe  Song  of  the  North 105 

Fiske,  Horace  Spencer 

Night  Song  of  the  Camp 91 

Flagg,  Edward  Octavius 

Song  of  the  Open  Camp 114 

Fletcher,  F.  W. 

To  My  .450 24 

Foster,  Thomas 

The  Guardian  of  the  Wilderness 176 

GUman,  C.  L. 

One  Man's  Size  Day 230 

Tea , 17 


xxii  CONTENTS 


PACB 


Harrison,  S.  Frances 

The  Half-Breed 183 

Harte,  Bret 

Dickens  in  Camp 219 

Hcimbach,  Edwin 

Love  of  the  Open 222 

Hewlett,  Maurice 

To  the  Gods  of  the  Country 236 

Hitchcock,  B.  A, 

The  Hunter's  Moon 93 

Hubert,  Brad  L. 

The  Old  Drummin'  Log 28 

Johnson,  E.  Pauline 

The  Lost  Lagoon 191 

The  Riders  of  the  Plains 144 

The  Song  My  Paddle  Sings 63 

Johnstone,  Gordon 

Dat  Beavarr 139 

Meeko 133 

Kipling,  Rudyard 

>    The  Feet  of  the  Young  Men 3 

Kirk,  Elizabeth 

To  My  Camping  Friend 89 

Knibbs,  Henry  Herbert 

My  Heart's  Desire 125 

The  Hills 229 

The  Outland  Trails 215 

Kreymborg,  Alfred 

Idealists 231 

Lampman,  Archibald 

Night  in  the  Wilderness 156 

Mair,  Charles 

The  Song  of  the  Last  Bison 19 

March,  J.  E. 

Canoe  Song  of  the  Milicetes 142 


CONTENTS  xxiii 

PAGE 

McArthur,  Peter 

Indian  Wind  Song >    .     .       lO 

McCuUy,  Laura  E. 

Canoe  Song  at  Twilight 50 

McGaffey,  Ernest 

Forty- three  Years 148 

Over  the  Decoys 74 

McLellan,  Isaac 

African  Game 96 

The  Hunter's  Camp  at  Night 98 

McQuilland,  Louis  J. 

Song  of  the  Open  Road 165 

Meany,  Edmond  S. 

Climbing  the  Mountain's  Rugged  Steep       ...       42 
The  Indian  Basket  Weaver 159 

O'Connell,  Daniel 

Our  Camp-fire 45 

Olcott,  William  Tyler 

A  Hunting  Song lOO 

Palmer,  Francis  Sterne 

The  Deer  Trapper 131 

Pike,  Albert 

The  Old  Canoe 81 

Pinkerton,  Robert  E. 

The  Portage  Trail 151 

Pitt,  Chart 

A  Lone-Land's  Lure 175 

The  Romance  Trail 141 

Song  of  the  Camp 197 

Pratt,  Florence  E. 

North  Woods  Livin' 102 

Randolph,  Lewis  V. 

Boating  up  the  Oswegatchie 232 


xxlv  CONTENTS 

PACK 

Roberts,  Charles  G.  D. 

Birch  and  Paddle 12 1 

The  Flight  of  the  Geese 167 

The  Stjlitary  Woodsman 224 

Wayfarer  of  Earth 61 

Roberts,  Lloyd 

Miss  Pixie 36 

Roberts,  Theodore 

Socobie's  Passing 189 

Roberts,  William  Carman 

My  Comrade  Canoe 200 

Sangster,  Charles 

The  Rapid 26 

Sarett,  Lew  R. 

The  Wilderness  Call no 

Scott,  Frederick  George 

The  Unnamed  Lake 85 

Service,  Robert  W. 

The  Call  of  the  Wild 12 

Seton,  Ernest  Thompson 

The  Road  to  Fairyland 179 

Spear,  E.  Patterson 

Our  Camping  Place 164 

Staff,  George  B. 

The  Camp-fire  Club 23 

Stevenson,  Robert  Louis 

A  Camp 218 

Stewart,  C.  M. 

The  Hunter's  Paradise       107 

Stringer,  Arthur 

Morning  in  the  North-west 66 

Thompson,  Charles  Lemuel 

The  Last  Camp-fire       227 


CONTENTS  XXV 

PAGE 

Tufts,  Leroy  Melville 

A  Taste  o'  Maine .»     .     .       84 

Turner,  Charles 

O'  Rare  October  Days 210 

Underbill,  Andrew  F. 

Canoe  Song  of  the  Jocko  River 8 

Welsh,  Robert  Gilbert 

In  Camp        vi 

Whipple,  J.  S. 

An  Old  Hunter's  Day  Dream 68 

Wilkinson,  Florence 

To  a  Wood  Path 157 

Willdy,  Jessie  D. 

Forest  Solitude 118 


CAMP-FIRE  VERSE 


THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN 

Now  the  Four-way  Lodge  is  opened,  now  the  Hunt- 
ing Winds  are  loose — 
Now  the  Smokes  of  Spring  go  up  to  clear  the 
brain ; 
Now  the  Young  Men's  hearts  are  troubled  for  the 
whisper  of  the  Trues, 
Now  the  Red  Gods  make  their  medicine  again! 
Who   hath    seen    the    beaver   busied?     Who   hath 
watched  the  black-tail  mating? 
Who  hath  lain  alone  to  hear  the  wild-goose  cry? 
Who    hath   worked   the   chosen   water   where   the 
ouananiche  is  waiting, 
Or  the  sea-trout's  jumping-crazy  for  the  fly? 

He  must  go — go — go  away  from  here! 

On  the  other  side  the  world  he's  overdue. 
'Send  your  road  is  clear  he  J  ore  you  when  the  old 
Spring-fret  comes  o'er  you 

And  the  Red  Gods  call  Jor  you! 

So  for  one  the  wet  sail  arching  through  the  rainbow 
round  the  bov/, 


4  THE   FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN 

And  for  one  the   creak    of  snow-shoes   on    the 
crust; 
And  for  one  the  lakeside  lilies  where  the  bull-moose 
waits  the  cow, 
And    for    one    the  mule-train   coughing    in    the 
dust. 
Who   hath   smelt   wood-smoke   at   twilight?     Who 
hath  heard  the  birch-log  burning? 
tVho  is  quick  to  read  the  noises  of  the  night? 
Let  him   follow   with   the  others,   for  the  Young 
Men's  feet  are  turning 
To  the  camps  of  proved  desire  and  known  delight ! 

Let  him  go — go,  etc. 

Do  you  know  the  blackened  timber — do  you  know 
that  racing  stream 
With  the  raw,  right-angled  log-jam  at  the  end; 
And  the  bar  of  sun-warmed  shingle  where  a  man 
may  bask  and  dream 
To  the  click  of  shod  canoe-poles  round  the  bend? 
It  is  there  that  we  are  going  with  our  rods  and 
reels  and  traces, 
To  a  silent,  smoky  Indian  that  we  know — 
To  a  couch  of  new-pulled  hemlock,  with  the  star- 
light on  our  faces. 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  us  out  and  we  must  go! 

They  must  go — go,  etc. 


THE  FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  5 

Do  you  know  the  shallow  Baltic  where  the  seas 
are  steep  and  short, 
Where  the  bluff,  lee-boarded  fishing-luggers  ride? 
Do  you  know  the  joy  of  threshing  leagues  to  lee- 
ward of  your  port 
On  a  coast  you've  lost  the  chart  of  overside? 
It  is  there  that  I  am  going,  with  an  extra  hand  to 
bale  her — 
Just  one  able  'long-shore  loafer  that  I  know. 
He  can  take  his  chance  of  drowning,  while  I  sail 
and  sail  and  sail  her, 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go! 

He  must  go — go,  etc. 

Do  you  know  the  pile-built  village  where  the  sago- 
dealers  trade — 
Do  you  know  the  reek  of  fish  and  wet  bamboo? 
Do  you  know  the  steaming  stillness  of  the  orchid- 
scented  glade 
When  the  blazoned,  bird-winged  butterflies  flap 
through  ? 
It  is  there  that  I  am  going  with  my  camphor,  net, 
and  boxes, 
To  a  gentle,  yellow  pirate  that  I  know — 
To   my   little   wailing   lemurs,    to  my   palms   and 
flying-foxes. 
For  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go! 

He  must  go — go,  etc. 


6  THE   FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN 

Do  you  know  the  world's  white  roof-tree — do  you 
know  that  windy  rift 
Where   the  baffling  mountain  eddies  chop   and 
change  ? 
Do  you  know  the  long  day's  patience,  belly-down 
on  frozen  drift, 
While  the  head  of  heads  is  feeding  out  of  range? 
It  is  there  that  I  am  going,  where  the  boulders 
and  the  snow  lie. 
With  a  trusty,  nimble  tracker  that  I  know. 
I  have  sworn  an  oath,  to  keep  it  on  the  Horns  of 
Ovis  Poli, 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  me  out  and  I  must  go! 

He  must  go — go,  etc. 

Now    the    Four-way    Lx)dge    is    opened — now    the 
smokes  of  Council  rise — 
Pleasant  smokes,  ere  yet  'twixt  trail  and  trail 
they  choose — 
Now  the  girths  and  ropes  are  tested:    now  they 
pack  their  last  supplies: 
Now  our  Young   Men  go  to  dance  before  the 
Trues! 
Who  shall  meet  them  at  those  altars — who  shall 
light  them  to  that  shrine? 
Velvet-footed,  who  shall  guide  them  to  their  goal  ? 
Unto   each  the  voice  and  vision:    unto  each  his 
spoor  and  sign — 


THE   FEET  OF  THE  YOUNG  MEN  7 

Lonely  mountain  in  the  Northland,  misty  sweat- 
bath  'neath  the  Line — 
And  to  each  a  man  that  knows  his  naked*  soul ! 

White  or  yellow,  black  or  copper,  he  is  waiting,  as 
a  lover, 
Smoke  of  funnel,  dust  of  hooves,  or  beat  of  train — 
Where  the  high  grass  hides  the  horseman  or  the 

glaring  flats  discover — 
Where  the  steamer  hails  the  landing,  or  the  surf- 
boat  brings  the  rover — 
Where  the  rails  run  out  in  sand-drift  .  .  .  Quick! 
ah,  heave  the  camp-kit  over! 
For  the  Red  Gods  make  their  medicine  again! 

Aitd  we  go — go — go — away  from  here! 

On  the  other  side  the  world  we're  overdue! 
'Send  the  road  is  dear  before  you  when  the  old 
Spring-fret  comes  o'er  you 
And  the  Red  Gods  call  for  you! 

RuDYARD  Kipling 


CANOE   vSONG   OF   THE  JOCKO 

In  the  pathless  woods  where  the  Jocko  flows, 

Over  the  track  where  the  bright  sun  glows, 

Paddling  afar  in  our  birch  canoe, 

We  are  a  care-free,  jolly  crew. 

Out  on  the  crest  of  the  lake's  clear  wave, 

Where  the  summer's  wind  sings  bold  and  brave, 

And  the  red  deer  come  to  the  water's  verge, 

Onward  our  bark  we  urge. 

Then,  ho!  for  the  life  on  the  glad  wave's  crest! 

Ho!  for  the  bay  where  the  sun  fades  west! 

For  the  camp-fire's  bright  where  we  dream  and  rest 

When  we've  beached  our  bark  canoe. 

Down  through  the  shadows  of  silent  streams 
Where  the  alder  grows  and  the  lily  gleams, 
And  the  great  moose  wallow  beneath  the  sun. 
And  the  wolf  steals  out  when  the  day  is  done. 
And  the  loon's  lone  cry  echoes  weird  and  far 
As  the  night  unfolds  with  each  brilliant  star, 
Light  as  the  air  we  glide  along 
Singing  oiir  glad  free  song. 


CANOE  SONG  OF  THE  JOCKO  9 

With  the  rod  and  the  gun  we  range  the  wild; 

Our  meat  is  a  fare  that  is  undefiled : 

The  bass  and  the  trout  and  the  wild  duck's  breast, 

And  the  brown  ruffed-grouse — are  not  these  the  best  ? 

A  plunge  in  the  lake  at  the  dawn  of  light, 

And  a  pipe  by  the  camp-fire's  glow  at  night, 

A  balsam  bed  where  the  soft  winds  sigh 

And  a  dreamless  sleep  'neath  the  sky. 

Andrew  F.  Underhill 


AN   INDIAN   WIND   SONG 

The  wolf  of  the  winter  wind  is  swift, 

And  hearts  are  still  and  cheeks  are  pale, 
When  we  hear  his  howl  in  the  ghostly  drift 

As  he  rushes  past  on  a  phantom  trail ; 
And  all  the  night  we  huddle  and  fear, 

For  we  know  that  his  path  is  the  path  of  Death, 
And  the  flames  bum  low,  when  his  steps  are  near. 

And  the  dim  hut  reeks  with  his  grave-cold  breath. 

The  fawn  of  the  wind  of  the  spring  is  shy, 

Her  light  feet  rustle  the  sere,  white  grass. 
The  trees  are  roused  as  she  races  by, 

In  the  pattering  rain  we  hear  her  pass; 
And  the  bow  unstrung  we  cast  aside, 

While  we  winnow  the  golden,  hoarded  maize. 
And  the  earth  awakes  with  a  thrill  of  pride 

To  deck  her  beauty  for  festal  days. 

The  hawk  of  the  simimer  wind  is  proud, 
She  circles  high  at  the  throne  of  the  sun ; 

When  the  storm  is  fierce  her  scream  is  loud. 
And  the  scorching  glance  of  her  eye  we  shim; 


AN  INDIAN  WIND  SONG  ii 

And  oftentimes,  when  the  sun  is  bright, 

A  silence  falls  on  the  choirs  of  song, 
And  the  partridge  shrinks  in  a  wild  affright, 

Where  a  searching  shadow  swings  along. 

The  hound  of  the  autumn  wind  is  slow, 

He  loves  to  bask  in  the  heat  and  sleep, 
When  the  sun  through  the  drowsy  haze  bends  low, 

And  frosts  from  the  hills  through  the  starlight 
creep; 
But  oftentimes  he  starts  in  his  dreams. 

When  the  howl  of  the  winter  wolf  draws  nigh. 
Then  lazily  rolls  in  the  gold-warm  beams, 

While  the  flocking  birds  to  the  south  drift  by, 

Peter  Mc Arthur 


THE   CALL  OF  THE  WILD 

Have  you  gazed  on  naked  grandeur  where  there's 
nothing  else  to  gaze  on, 
Set  pieces  and  drop-curtain  scenes  galore, 
Big  mountains  heaved  to  heaven,  which  the  blinding 
sunsets  blazon, 
Black  canyons  where  the  rapids  rip  and  roar? 
Have  you  swept  the  visioned  valley  with  the  green 
stream  streaking  through  it, 
Searched  the  Vastness  for  a  something  you  have 
lost? 
Have  you  strung  your  soul  to  silence?    Then  for 
God's  sake  go  and  do  it; 
Hear  the  challenge,  learn  the  lesson,  pay  the  cost. 

Have  you  wandered  in  the  wilderness,  the  sage-brush 
desolation. 
The  bimch-grass  levels  where  the  cattle  graze? 
Have  you  whistled  bits  of  rag-time  at  the  end  of  all 
creation. 
Arid  learned  to  know  the  desert's  little  ways? 
Have  you  camped  upon  the  foothills,   have  you 
galloped  o'er  the  ranges, 


THE  CALL  OF  THE  WILD  13 

Have  you  roamed  the  arid  sun-lands  through  and 

through  ? 
Have  70U  chummed  up  with  the  mesa?     Do  you 

know  its  moods  and  changes  ? 
Then  Hsten  to  the  wild — it's  calling  you. 

Have  you  known  the  Great  White  Silence,  not  a 
snow-gemmed  twig  aquiver? 
(Eternal  truths  that  shame  our  soothing  lies.) 
Have  you  broken  trail  on  snowshoes?  mushed  your 
huskies  up  the  river, 
Dared  the  unknown,  led  the  way,  and  clutched  the 
prize  ? 
Have  you  marked  the  map's  void  spaces,  mingled 
with  the  mongrel  races, 
Felt  the  savage  strength  of  brute  in  every  thew? 
And  though  grim  as  hell  the  worst  is,  can  you  round 
it  off  with  curses? 
Then  hearken  to  the  Wild — it's  wanting  you. 

Have  you  suffered,  starved  and  triimiphed,  grovelled 
down,  yet  grasped  at  glory. 
Grown  bigger  in  the  bigness  of  the  whole? 
"Done  things"  just  for  the  doing,  letting  babblers 
tell  the  story, 
Seeing  through  the  nice  veneer  the  naked  soul? 
Have  you  seen  God  in  His  splendors,  heard  the  text 
that  nature  renders? 


14  THE   CALL  OF  THE  WILD 

(You'll  never  hear  it  in  the  family  pew.) 
The  simple  things,  the  true  things,  the  silent  men 
who  do  things — 
Then  listen  to  the  Wild — it's  calling  you. 

They  have  cradled  you  in  custom,  they  have  primed 
you  with  their  preaching. 
They  have  soaked  you  in  convention  through  and 
through ; 
They  have  put  you  in  a  showcase;  you're  a  credit  to 
their  teaching — 
But  can't  you  hear  the  Wild? — it's  calling  you. 
Let  us  probe  the  silent  places,  let  us  seek  what  luck 
betide  us; 
Let  us  journey  to  a  lonely  land  I  know. 
There's  a  whisper  on  the  night-wind,  there's  a  star 
agleam  to  guide  us, 
And  the  wild  is  calling,  calling  ...  let  us  go. 

Robert  W.  Service 


CAMPING  SONG 

Has  your  dinner  lost  its  savor? 

Has  your  greeting  lost  its  cheer? 
Is  your  daily  stunt  a  burden  ? 

Is  your  laughter  half  a  sneer  ? 
There's  a  medicine  to  cure  you, 

There's  a  way  to  lift  your  load, 
With  a  horse  and  a  saddle  and  a  mile  of  open  road. 

Is  your  eyeball  growing  bilious  ? 

Is  your  temper  getting  short  ? 
Is  this  life  a  blind  delusion. 

Or  a  grim,  unlovely  sport? 
There's  a  world  of  health  and  beauty, 

There's  a  help  that  cannot  fail, 
In  a  day  behind  the  burros 

On  a  dusty  mountain  trail. 

Come  out,  old  man,  we're  going 

To  a  land  that's  free  and  large. 
Where  the  rainless  skies  are  resting 

On  a  snowy  mountain  marge. 


i6  CAMPING  SONG 

When  we  camp  in  God's  own  country, 

You  will  find  yourself  again, 
With  a  fire  and  a  blanket  and  the  stars  upon  the 
plain ! 

Bliss  Carman 


TEA 

From  the  faucets  of  the  fountain  and  the  bottles 

of  the  bar 
I've  tried  many  fancy  gargles,   'most  as  many  as 

there  are, 
But  the  drink  that's  first  and  foremost,  if  you  put 

it  up  to  me, 
Is  the  scalding  can  of  ashes,  swamp-juice,  soot — 

and  tea. 

At  the  take-off  of  the  portage,  when  a  man  is  damp 

with  toil, 
Heat  and  deer-flies  are  forgotten,  when  the  tea  comes 

to  a  boil. 
In  the  silent  winter  muskeg,  where  the  snow  has  hid 

the  trail, 
Strength  and  hope  and  courage  wait  him  with  the 

bubbling  of  the  pail. 

Propped  with  rocks  beside  the  rapids,  jabbed  into 

the  forest  mould, 
Smoked  and  scorched,  ten  thousand  tea-sticks,  mark 

the  camp-sites  of  the  bold. 


l8  TEA 

Other  drinks  may  please  the  townsman,  do  to  flirt 

with,  now  and  then, 
But,  the  Silent  Places  witness,  tea's  the  drink  that's 

drunk  by  men. 

C.  L.  Oilman 


THE   SONG  OF  THE   LAST  BISON 

Here    me,    ye    smokeless    skies    and    grass -green 
earth, 
Since  by  your  sufferance  still  I  breathe  and  live! 
Through  you  fond  Nature  gave  me  birth. 

And  food  and  freedom — all  she  had  to  give. 
Enough !     I  grew,  and  with  my  kindred  ranged 
Their  realm  stupendous,  changeless  and  unchanged, 

Save  by  the  toil  of  nations  primitive, 
Who   throve   on   us,    and    loved    our  life-stream's 

roar, 
And  lived  beside  its  wave,  and  camped  upon  its 
shore. 

They  loved  us,  and  they  wasted  not.     They  slew, 
With  pious  hand,  but  for  their  daily  need; 

Not  wantonly,  but  as  the  due 

Of  stem  necessity  which  Life  doth  breed. 

Yea,  even  as  earth  gave  us  herbage  meet. 

So  yielded  we,  in  turn,  our  substance  sweet 
To  quit  the  claims  of  hunger,  not  of  greed. 

So  stood  it  with  us  that  what  either  did 

Could  not  be  on  the  earth  foregone,  nor  Heaven 
forbid. 


80         THE  SONG  OF  THE  LAST  BISON 

And  so,  companioned  in  the  blameless  strife 
Enjoined  upon  all  creatures,  small  and  great, 

Our  ways  were  venial,  and  our  life 
Ended  in  fair  fulfilment  of  our  fate. 

No  gold  to  them  by  sordid  hands  was  passed ; 

No  greedy  herdsman  housed  us  from  the  blast; 
Ours  was  the  liberty  of  regions  rife 

In  winter's  snow,  in  summer's  fruits  and  flowers — 

Ours  were  the  virgin  prairies,  and  their  rapture  ours ! 

So  fared  it  with  us  both ;  yea,  thus  it  stood 

In  all  our  wanderings  from  place  to  place, 
Until  the  red  man  mixed  his  blood 

With  paler  currents.  Then  arose  a  race — 
The  reckless  hunters  of  the  plains — who  vied 
In  wanton  slaughter  for  the  tongue  and  hide, 

To  satisfy  vain  ends  and  longings  base. 
This  grew;  and  yet  we  flourished,  and  our  name 
Prospered  until  the  pale  destroyer's  concourse  came. 

Then  fell  a  double  terror  on  the  plains. 

The  swift  inspreading  of  destruction  dire — 

Strange  men,  who  ravaged  our  domains 

On  every  hand,  and  ringed  us  round  with  fire; 

Pale  enemies  who  slew  with  equal  mirth 

The  harrhless  or  the  hurtful  things  of  earth, 
In  dread  fruition  of  their  mad  desire : 

The  ministers  of  mischief  and  of  might, 

Who  yearn  for  havoc  as  the  world's  supreme  delight. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  LAST  BISON  25 

So  waned  the  myriads  which  had  waxed  before 
When  subject  to  the  simple  needs  of  men.      ^ 

As  yields  to  eating  seas  the  shore, 

So  yielded  our  vast  multitude,  and  then^ — 

It  scattered !     Meagre  bands,  in  wild  dismay. 

Were  parted,  and,  for  shelter,  fled  away 

To  barren  wastes,  to  mountain  gorge  and  glen. 

A  respite  brief  from  stem  piu-suit  and  care. 

For  still  the  spoiler  sought,  and  still  he  slew  us  there. 

Hear  me,  thou  grass-green  earth,  ye  smokeless  skies, 

Since  by  your  sufferance  still  I  breathe  and  live ! 
The  charity  which  man  denies 

Ye  still  would  tender  to  the  fugitive ! 
I  feel  your  mercy  in  my  veins — at  length 
My    heart    revives,    and    strengthens    with    your 
strength — 
Too  late,  too  late,  the  coiirage  ye  would  give ! 
Naught  can  avail  these  woimds,  this  failing  breath, 
This  frame  which  feels,  at  last,  the  wily  touch  of 
death. 

Here  must  the  last  of  all  his  kindred  fall ; 

Yet,  midst  these  gathering  shadows,  ere  I  die — 
Responsive  to  an  inward  call. 

My  spirit  fain  would  rise  and  prophesy. 
I  see  our  spoilers  build  their  cities  great 
Upon  our  plains — I  see  their  rich  estate: 

The  centuries  in  dim  procession  fly ! 


22  THE  SONG  OF  THE  LAST  BISON 

Long  ages  roll,  and  then  at  length  is  bared 
The  time  when  they  who  spared  not  are  no  longer 
spared. 

Once  more  my  vision  sweeps  the  prairies  wide, 

But  now  no  peopled  cities  greet  the  sight ; 
All  perished,  now,  their  pomp  and  pride: 
In  solitude  the  wild  wind  takes  delight. 
Naught  but  the  vacant  wilderness  is  seen, 
And  grassy  mounds,  where  cities  once  had  been. 

The  earth  smiles  as  of  yore,  the  skies  are  bright, 
Wild  cattle  graze  and  bellow  on  the  plain. 
And  savage  nations  roam  o'er  native  wilds  again. 

Charles  Mair 


THE   CAMP-FIRE   CLUB 

To  shield  the  forests  from  men's  blighting  hands, 
And  guard  the  trees  that  Nature's  hand  has  placed 

Upon  the  hills,  that  all  our  wooded  lands 
May  not  become  a  bleak  and  barren  waste. 

To  fight  for  game  laws  sensible  and  just ; 

To  keep  the  streams  from  black  pollution  free; 
This  is  their  vow — this  is  their  sacred  trust 

Throughout  the  coimtless  years  that  are  to  be! 

George  B.  Staff 


TO  MY   .450 

"Let  lovesick  swains 
In  Cupid's  chains 

Bound  fast,  prate  of  their  blisses, 
And  rave  and  swear 
Naught  can  compare 

With  soft  vows,  sealed  with  kisses. 

"Let  Britons  bold 
The  maxim  hold 

That  cricket's  life's  elixir; 
No  greater  bliss 
To  them  than  this — 

'Well  hit!    By  jove,  a  sixer!' 

"Let  Scots  proclaim 
The  'royal  game 

Of  golf  without  a  rival; 
And  quaff  a  brew 
Of  mountain  dew 

To  welcome  its  revival. 

"Let  some  opine 
That  joy  divine 


TO  MY  .450  ^5 

Is  found  in  thee,  lawn-tennis; 
Pat  ball  at  best, 
And  I  protest 

That  joy  beyond  my  ken  is. 

"But  what  are  these, 
Which  others  please, 

To  us,  who  know  the  measure 
Of  bliss  past  speech 
Which  those  can  reach, 

Who  count  thee  first,  my  treasure. 

"Then  while  kind  fate 
To  hold  thee  straight 

Gives  me  the  power,  I'll  stifle 
All  love,  save  love 
Of  thy  bright  groove — 

My  little,  trusty  rifle!" 

F.  W.  Fletcher 


THE  RAPID 

All  peacefully  gliding, 

The  waters  dividing, 
The  indolent  batteau  moved  slowly  along, 

The  rowers,  light-hearted, 

From  sorrow  long  parted, 
Beguiled  the  dull  moments  with  laughter  and  song: 
"Hurrah  for  the  rapid  that  merrily,  merrily 

Gambols  and  leaps  on  its  tortuous  way! 
Soon  we  will  enter  it,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Pleased    with    its    freshness,   and  wet    with   its 
spray." 

More  swiftly  careering. 

The  wild  rapid  nearing, 
They  dash  down  the  stream  like  a  terrified  steed; 

The  surges  delight  them. 

No  terrors  affright  them, 
Their  voices  keep  pace  with  the  quickening  speed: 
"Hurrah  for  the  rapid  that  merrily,  merrily 

Shivers  its  arrows  against  us  in  play! 
Now  we  have  entered  it,  cheerily,  cheerily, 

Our  spirits  as  light  as  its  feathery  spray." 


THE  RAPID  27 

Fast  downward  they're  dashing, 

Each  fearless  eye  flashing, 
Though  danger  awaits  them  on  every  side. 

Yon  rock — see  it  frowning! 

They  strike — they  are  drowning! 
But  downward  they  speed  with  the  merciless  tide; 
No  voice  cheers  the  rapid,  that  angrily,  angrily 

Shivers  their  bark  in  its  maddening  play; 
Gaily  they  entered  it — heedlessly,  recklessly, 

Mingling  their  lives  with  its  treacherous  spray! 

Charles  Sangster 


THE   OLD  DRUMMIN'   LOG 

Many  autumns  now  have  vanished  since  my  brother 

Tim  and  I, 
While  a-milkin'  in  the  momin',  jest  as  day  was 

drawin'  nigh, 
Heard  a  bit  of  pleasant  music  kinder  floatin'  through 

the  fog; 
'Twas  the  boomin'  of  a  pa'tridge  on  a  well-known 

drummin'  log. 

Quick  we  left  the  tiresome  milkin',  skippin'  quickly 

from  the  stall; 
Softly  stole  into  the  kitchen,  took  the  musket  from 

the  wall; 
Then  we  hustled  off  like   Injuns  on  a  light  and 

stealthy  jog, 
Down  toward  the  cheerin'  music  wafted  from  the 

drummin'  log. 

On  all  fours  we  went  a-creepin'  fer  a  dozen  rod 

or  more, 
Gettin'    thistle    in    our   fingers,    an'    our    breeches 

badly  tore; 


THE  OLD  DRUMMIN'  LOG  29 

But  we  slid  along  with  caution,  through  the  damp 

and  through  the  fog, 
Fer  we  heard  the  steady  boomin'  comin'  from  the 

drummin'  log. 

Then  we  did  some  cautious  peekin'  through  a  cliimp 
of  little  trees; 

Gee !  there  set  our  feathered  drummer,  jest  as  perky 
as  you  please; 

vSo  we  shoved  the  faithful  musket  'cross  a  hummock 
in  the  bog, 

Allers  keepin'  of  our  optics  glued  upon  the  drum- 
min' log. 


Glancin'  straight  along  the  barrel,  brother  took  a 
careful  sight, 

While  we  almost  quit  a-breathin'  lest  the  bird  should 
take  a  flight; 

Then  the  shooter  pressed  the  trigger,  all  his  facul- 
ties agog, 

An'  the  smoke  went  rollin'  forward  to'rd  the  big 
old  drummin'  log. 

With  our  hearts  jest  fairly  bumpin',  off  we  started 

on  a  run 
To  pick  up  our  splendid  pa'tridge,  never  stoppin' 

for  the  gun — 


30  THE  OLD  DRUMMIN'  LOG 

Jumpin'  Jinks!  what  disappointment!  all  our  bright 

hopes  slipped  a  cog; 
'Twas  a  knot  that  we  had  peppered  on  that  cussed 

drummin'  log. 

Then  the  pa'tridge  jest  up  an'  flew. 

Brad  L.  Hubert 


THE  HUNTER   IN   CAMP 

O!   the   bountiful   sense   of   freedom   that   sweeps 

through  the  hunter's  breast 
When  the  tramp  of  the  day  is  over  and  he  dreamily 

lies  at  rest 
In  the  glow  of  the  blazing  camp-fire,  that  stabs  at 

the  robe  of  night, 
And  points  at  the  gathering  shadows  with  fingers  of 

cherry  light. 

The  smoke  from  his  pipe  curls  upward  in  wreathings 

of  vaporish  gray, 
And  chases  the  sparks  from  the  pine  knots  that  snap 

in  defiant  way 
As  he  lies  in  his  well-worn  blankets  and  lazily  takes 

his  ease 
Where  only  the  stars  can  find  him  as  they  peep 

through  the  sheltering  trees. 

He  dreams  of  the  world  out  yonder,  but  never  an 

envious  thought 
Finds  a  place  in  his  brawny  bosom ;  to  him  the  great 

world  is  naught 


32  THE   HUNTER   IN  CAMP 

But  a  whirlpool  of  care  and  trouble,  from  whose 
ever-gathering  ills 

He  fled  to  his  life  of  freedom  and  peace  in  the  tower- 
ing hills. 


He  accepts  no  man  as  his  master,  he  is  king  of  his 

wild  domain. 
There  is  none  to  challenge  his  power,  there  is  none  to 

dispute  his  reign 
As  he  lists  to  the  night's  weird  voices  borne  down  on 

the  whispering  breeze. 
Where  only  the  stars  can  find  him  as  they  peep 

through  the  sheltering  trees. 

Those  voices  to  him  are  as  music;  the  cry  of  the 

crag-perched  owl. 
The  spiteful  squall  of  the  wildcat,  the  dog-wolf's 

resounding  howl. 
The  voice  of  protest  from  the  cougar  from  mouth  of 

its  cavernous  den, 
As  the  smoke  of  his  fire  arises  from  his  camp  in  the 

hidden  glen. 

With  never  a  thought  of  danger,  he  lies  in  his  blanket 

bed, 
His  coat  of  canvas  the  pillow  supporting  his  drowsy 

head 


THE  HUNTER   IN  CAMP  33 

As  he  watches  the  white  clouds  drifting  through 

limitless  azure  seas 
Where  only  the  stars  can  find  him  as  they  peep 

through  the  sheltering  trees. 

O!  where  is  the  life  so  peaceful,  so  free  from  the 

fangs  of  care? 
With  never  a  thought  of  the  morrow — no  thought  of 

the  fruit  it  may  bear. 
His  bedfellow  but  his  rifle,  a  friend  that  he  never 

knew 
To  fail  in  the  hour  of  danger — no  animate  friend 

more  true. 

He  studies  the  jewel  beauties  set  high  in  the  arching 

skies 
Till  the  finger  of  sleep  softly  touches  the  lids  of  his 

weary  eyes, 
And  sweet  are  the  dreamland  visions  the  eye  of  his 

slumber  sees, 
Where  only  the  stars  can  find  him  as  they  peep 

through  the  sheltering  trees. 

James  Barton  Adams 


THE  WAIL  OF  THE  GUIDE 

Yo'  city  chaps  comes  tcr  th'  woods 

With  yo'  new-fangled  guns, 
'N  'low  yo'  prime  ter  shoot  th'  hide 

Off  anything  'et  runs! — 

Yo'  grumble  at  the  grub  I  cook, 

Yo'  shirk  at  rain  'r  fog, 
'N  when  yo've  nathin'  else  ter  do 

Yo'  tease  'n  kick  my  dog. 

Who  cleans  yo'  guns  'n  tends  th'  camp? 

Who  built  that  'ere  canoe? 
You  think  yo'd  larn  them  tricks  in  books, 

'N  maybe  lam  me,  too. 

There  ain't  no  guide  in  seven  states 

Kin  track  a  moose  like  me, 
'N  I  kin  smell  a  caribou 

As  fer  as  yo'  kin  see; 

I'd  like  ter  see  yo'  tote  th'  load 

O'  stuff  yo'  make  me  pack, 
From  lake  ter  lake  along  th'  run — 

Yo'  break  yo'  dog-goned  back. 


THE  WAIL  OF  THE  GUIDE  35 

Who  keeps  yo'  out  o'  traps  'n  snares? 

Who  calls  yo'  moose  'n  deer? 
Who  showed  yo'  whar  ter  find  a  b'ar 

That  day  yo'  run  so  queer? — 

Don't  guy  yo'  country  guide,  my  friend, 
Tho'  he  don't  know  yo'  creed — 

Thar's  heaps  o'  things  man  kin  larn 
As  well  as  lam  ter  read. 

Frederic  Colburn  Clarke 


MISS  PIXIE 

Did  you  ever  meet  Miss  Pixie  of  the  Spruces? 

Did  you  ever  glimpse  her  mocking  elfin  face?' 
Did  you  ever  hear  her  calling  while  the  whip-poor- 
wills  were  calling, 

And  slipped  your  pack  and  taken  up  the  chase  ? 

Her  feet  are  clad  in  moccasins  and  beads. 

Her  dress?    Oh,  next  to  nothing!    Though  un- 
dressed, 
Her  slender  arms  are  circled  roimd  with  vine 

And  dusky  locks  cling  close  about  her  breast. 

Red  berries  droop  below  each  pointed  ear; 

Her  nut-brown  legs  are  criss-crossed  white  with 
scratches ; 
Her  merry  laughter  sifts  among  the  pines; 

Her    eager    face    gleams    pale    from    milk-weed 
patches. 

And  though  I  never  yet  have  reached  her  hand — 
God  knows  I've  tried  with  all  my  heart's  desire; — 

One  morning  just  at  dawn  she  caught  me  sleeping 
And  with  her  soft  lips  touched  my  soul  with  fire. 


MISS  PIXIE  n 

And  once  when  camping  near  a  foaming  rip, 
Lying  wide-eyed  beneath  the  milky  stars, 

Sudden  I  heard  her  voice  ring  sweet  and  clear. 
Calling  my  soul  beyond  the  river  bars. 

Dear,  dancing  Pixie  of  the  wind  and  weather, 
Aglow  with  love  and  merriment  and  sun, 

I  chase  thee  down  my  dreams,  but  catch  thee  never — 
God  grant  I  catch  thee  ere  the  trail  is  done! 

Did  you  ever  meet  Miss  Pixie  of  the  Thickets, 
Where  the  scarlet  leaves  leap  tinkling  from  your 
feet? 
Have  you  ever  heard  her  calling  while  a  million  feet 
were  falling, 
And  a  million  lights  were  crowding  all  the  street  ? 
4  Lloyd  Roberts 


'JOY  TO  THEE,  MY  BRAVE  CANOE" 

Joy  to  thee,  my  brave  canoe, 
There's  no  wing  so  swift  as  you; 
Right  and  left  the  bubbles  rise, 
Right  and  left  the  pine  wood  flies; 
Birds  and  clouds  and  tide  and  wind, 
We  shall  leave  ye  all  behind. 

Joy  to  thee,  my  brave  canoe. 
There's  no  wing  so  swift  as  you, 
Joy  to  thee,  my  brave  canoe. 
There's  no  wing  so  swift  as  you. 

Gently,  now,  my  brave  canoe, 
Keep  your  footing  sure  and  true, 
For  the  rapid  close  beneath 
Leaps  and  shouts  his  song  of  death; 
Now  one  plunge  and  all  is  done; 
Now  one  plunge,  the  goal  is  won. 

Joy  to  thee,  my  brave  canoe. 
There's  no  wing  so  swift  as  you, 
Joy  to  thee,  my  brave  canoe, 
There's  no  wing  so  swift  as  you. 

French-Canadian  Voyageur's  Song 


OUT  WHERE  THE  WEST  BEGINS 

Out  where  the  handclasp's  a  little  stronger, 
Out  where  the  smile  dwells  a  little  longer, 

That's  where  the  West  begins; 
Out  where  the  sun  is  a  little  brighter, 
Where  the  snows  that  fall  are  a  trifle  whiter. 
Where  the  bonds  of  home  are  a  wee  bit  tighter, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Out  where  the  skies  are  a  trifle  bluer, 
Out  where  friendship's  a  little  truer. 

That's  where  the  West  begins; 
Out  where  a  fresher  breeze  is  blowing, 
Where  there's  laughter  in  every  streamlet  flowing. 
Where  there's  more  of  reaping  and  less  of  sowing, 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Out  where  the  world  is  in  the  making, 
Where  fewer  hearts  in  despair  are  aching, 

That's  where  the  West  begins; 
Where  there's  more  of  singing  and  less  of  sighing. 
Where  there's  more  of  giving  and  less  of  buying, 
And  a  man  makes  friends  without  half  trying — 

That's  where  the  West  begins. 

Arthur  Chapman 


THE   PANTHER'S  TRAIL 

Night's  sombre  mantle  hangs  uncertain  in  the  sky 

As  if  'twere  all-unwilling  and  ashamed 

To  clothe  earth's  majesty  in  nothingness. 

The  stillness  clutches  at  my  throat;  no  soimd 

Breaks  on  my  ear,  save  nature's  mystic  silence. 

A  sense  akin  to  fear  seizes  upon  my  soul 

As  with  hushed  breath  I  enter  these  vast  solitudes. 

Some  wild  beast  here  has  faintly  marked  a  path 
Through  briar,  brush  and  tangled  vine; 
With  trembling  hand  I  push  aside 
The  interfering  branches  of  the  bending  trees 
And  follow  the  devious  trail.     But  not  for  long; 
Beyond  yon  bend  the  gloom  shuts  out  the  line — 
The  desecrating  foot  of  man  forbids. 
And  as  mine  eyes  search  hard  the  desolate  gloom 
That  lies  like  a  funeral  pall  across  the  trail, 
My  mind,  half-awed,  fills  into  dreamy  moods 
And  rends  the  future's  veil  from  these  primeval 
woods. 

Lo!  fancy  pictures  to  the  view  the  broad 
And  length'ning  highway  of  a  future  age 


THE  PANTHER'S  TRAIL  41 

Where  now  the  panther  treads  his  lonely  round; 
Here  a  great  city'll  rear  its  tow'ring  spires,        » 
The  home  of  trade  and  traffic  far  and  near, 
And  civ'lization's  crimes  and  brutal  ways; 
Here  men  will  buy  and  sell,  and  cheat  and  steal. 
And  women  barter  their  souls  for  gold  and  baubles; 
Here  pride   and    hate   and  lust  and  murder  will 

hold  sway; 
Here  men  will  upbuild  gilded  palaces 
And  call  them  churches,  and  with  swelling  pride 
Proclaim  aloud:  "This  is  a  Christian  land!" — 
While  th'  himible  Nazarene  will  bow  His  lowly  head 
And  weep  in  sorrow  and  in  shame  without  the  door! 

Ah,  better  far  a  cycle  of  God's  solitudes 
Than  one  day  of  man's  brutal  empire.     This 
Green  earth,  these  lordly  trees  were  when  he  was 

not;  they 
Will  be  when  he  will  be  forgotten  save  by  Him 
Who  gave  him  a  brief  span  of  breath  and  futile  life ! 
Alexander  Nicolas  De  Menil 


CLIMBING  THE  MOUNTAIN'S  RUGGED 
STEEP 

Climbing  the  mountain's  rugged  steep, 
I  wake  each  day  my  faith  to  keep: 
BeHeve  my  soul  that  God  is  near 
When  stars  gleam  from  the  azure  clear, 
Thy  windows  open  to'rd  the  blue 
While  God's  pure  light  is  streaming  through. 

Be  sure,  my  soul,  this  faith  to  keep, 
Climbing  the  mountain's  rugged  steep. 
Be  sure,  my  soul,  this  faith  to  keep, 
Climbing  the  mountain's  rugged  steep. 

And  thus,  my  soul,  through  din  and  strife 
As  mountaineer  reflect  in  life: 
That  trees  defy  the  storm's  cold  wrath 
And  heather  bounds  the  snowy  path; 
That  more  than  these  should  man  be  brave 
His  pure  heart's  love  to  hold  and  save. 

Edmond  S.  Meany 


THE   MOOSE   CALL 

The  autumn  sun  sinks  low 

Behind  the  wall  of  sombre  fir 
And  paints  with  yellow  glow 

The  mirror' d  surface  of  the  lake. 
With  face  upturned  and  ear 

Attuned  to  catch  the  very  breath 
Of  dying  day  and  year 

The  Indian  hunter  stands  and  snifts 
The  stillness  far  and  near. 

Close  to  the  hunter's  side 

The  trusty  paddle's  season'd  blade. 
By  rip  and  torrent  tried, 

Now  steady  holds  the  frail  canoe, 
While  rests  upon  his  knee 

The  rudely  twisted  coil  of  bark — 
Himself  so  still  the  tree 

Against  the  fading  Autumn  sky 
Is  not  more  still  then  he. 

At  the  gloomy  edge 

Of  the  forest  dark  a  muskrat, 
Sporting  in  the  sedge. 


44  THE  MOOSE  CALL 

Chippcrs  to  its  dusky  mate; 
From  out  the  misty  hill 

A  nij^ht  owl's  lonesome  cry  is  heard — 
A  cry  that  sends  a  chill 

Of  fear  through  beast  and  sleeping  bird — 
Then  all  again  is  still. 

Hark!  the  hunter  starts! 

A  sound  borne  softly  on  the  air 
The  mighty  stillness  parts 

And  makes  the  hunter's  heart  beat  fast. 
Tender,  low,  it  thrills 

The  listening  hunter's  inmost  soul: 
Yet  resonant,  it  fills 

The  valley  with  an  echo  from 
The  everlasting  hills! 

Edwin  Tappan  Adney 


OUR  CAMP-FIRE 

With  many  a  sea-worn  fragment 
Of  vessels,  once  stout  and  brave, 

We  piled  the  glowing  camp-fire, 
By  the  tranquil  summer  wave. 

And  we  shouted  as  the  red  flames 
Leaped  out  toward  the  moonlit  sea, 

And  we  danced  in  the  spectral  shadows 
With  a  long-forgotten  glee. 

The  camp-fire  has  sunk  into  ashes, 

Its  embers  are  dead  and  cold, 
The  songs  that  we  sung  are  silent, 

The  tales  that  we  love  are  told. 

And  though  moons  as  bright  may  glisten 
O'er  the  waves  by  whose  shores  we  lay, 

No  more  shall  we  watch  them  quiver 
On  the  breast  of  the  land-locked  bay. 

For,  like  the  drift-wood  embers, 
Our  souls  have  smouldered  down, 

From  the  glory  of  sea  and  wildwood 
To  the  dull,  sad  ways  of  the  town. 

Daniel  O'Connell 


SYLVAN   SEDUCTIONS 

Did  you  ever  lounge  in  your  easy  chair,  by  the 

light  of  the  fading  day, 
With  the  embers  aglow  with  a  dving  flame  as  the 

last  log  bums  away, 
While  without  the  mournful  storm  you  hear,  with 

its  driving  sleet  and  rain, 
While  your  thoughts  are  filled  with  the  dear  old  days 

that  we've  passed  in  the  woods  of  Maine? 

Did  you  dream  of  the  woods — the  camp,  the  lake 

the  gurgling  song  of  the  stream, 
Of  the  stately  mountain  embraced  by  the  clouds, 

and  kissed  by  the  sun's  last  gleam; 
Of  the  days  when  you  patiently  whipped  the  brook, 

alluring  the  lusty  trout. 
Or  stealthily  crept  through  the  shady  woods,  putting 

many  a  deer  to  .rout? 

Did  you  think  of  the  journey  in  frail  canoe  with  its 

poetry,  excitement  and  charm; 
Of  the  rush  through  the  hissing  rapid  below;  of 

the  dead-water,  peaceful  and  calm: 


SYLVAN   SEDUCTIONS  47 

Of  the  long  weird  cry  of  the  lonely  loon  sounding 

out  o'er  the  lake  at  night; 
The  drum  of  the  partridge  away  in  the  woods; 

the  whistling  deer  in  his  fright? 

Did  the  moonlit  night  on  the  glassy  lake  return  as 

a  spectre  of  yore, 
With    the    rounded   hills    and    the    sentinel    pines 

bounding  the  darkened  shore? 
Did  the  cheerful  camp-fire,  blazing  bright,  enable 

you  there  to  see 
Forms  stretched  out  on  the  soft,  green  moss,  well 

known  to  you  and  me? 

Then  as  the  last  glowing  ember  fades,   and  the 

hearth  grows  dim  and  cold, 
And  you  break  from  the  mystic  ties  in  which  you've 

found  yourself  enrolled. 
You  pray  with  a  fervent  prayer  that  you  may 

sometime  see  again 
The  good  old    times  and  the  dear  old  days  that 

we've  passed  in  the  woods  of  Maine. 

LeBaron  C,  Colt 


PROGRESS  IN  THE  RANGELEYS 

There's  a  telephone  and  ping-pong  up  at  Grant's, 
And  a  square  piano  near  the  beaver's  haunts, 

And  they  play  you  "Rip  Van  Winkle" 

With  an  airy  fairy  tinkle. 
While  the  rising  moon  the  silver  lake  enchants. 

There  are  spiral  springs  and  linen  on  the  bed 
And  a  white  and  soothing  pillow  for  your  head ; 

There  are  napkins  when  you  eat 

And  three  dishes  with  the  meat, 
And  a  comfortable  feeling  when  you're  fed. 

For  the  good  old  times  of  tent  and  boughs  are  past, 
Noisy  Progress  is  a-coming  mighty  fast; 

Farewell  to  trail  and  bog 

And  the  lean-to  made  of  log, — 
Trackless  wilderness  and  days  too  good  to  last! 

Oh,  the  memories  that  vanished  trails  inspire — 
Quiet  pools  and  jimiping  fish  to  your  desire ! 
It's  the  wily  trout  you  missed 
And  the  girl  you  lost,  but  kissed, 
You  remember  when  you  smoke  before  the  fire. 


PROGRESS   IN  THE   RANGELEYS  49 

Through  the  woods  the  rattling  engine  screams  and 

pants, 
From  Bill  Soule's  to  Kennebago  they  advance; 
And  the  irritating  whistle 
Is  heard  'mid  birch  and  thistle; 
Soon  the  brakeman  will  hello,  "All  out  for  Grant's!" 

Robert  Bridges 


CANOE  SONG  AT  TWILIGHT 

Down  in  the  west  the  shadows  rest, 
Little  gray  wave,  sing  low,  sing  low! 

With  a  rhythmic  sweep  o'er  the  gloomy  deep 
Into  the  dusk  of  the  night  we  go, 
And  the  paddles  dip  and  lift  and  slip. 
And  the  drops  fall  back  with  a  pattering  drip ; 

The  wigwams  deep  of  the  spirits  of  sleep 

Are  pitched  in  the  gloom  of  the  headland  steep — 
Wake  not  their  silence  as  you  go. 
Little  gray  wave,  sing  low,  sing  low! 

From  your  porch  on  high  where  the  clouds  go  by, 
Little  white  moon,  look  down,  look  down! 
'Neath  night's  shut-lid  the  stars  are  hid, 
And  the  last  late  bird  to  his  nest  has  flown. 
The  slow  waves  glide  and  sink  and  slide 
And  rise  in  ripples  along  the  side; 
The  loons  call  low  in  the  marsh  below, 
Night  weaves  about  us  her  magic  slow — 
Ere  the  last  faint  gleam  in  our  wake  be  gone. 
Little  white  moon,  look  down,  look  down! 
Laura  E.  McCully 


THE  CALL 

Have  you  heard  the  calHng,  calling,  of  the  Distance, 
Through  the  purple  reaches  where  the  mountains 
wait; 
With  Dreamland  round  their  shoulders,  where  the 
sunset  fire  smoulders — 
Oh,  the  guarding  Distance  calls  us  from  their 
gate. 

In  the  morning  it  entices  with  the  sunrise, 

In  the  evening  it  is  urging  through  the  gold; 
We  must  heed  the  sweet  insistence,  for  this  mystic 
blue-veiled  Distance 
Hides  our  wished-for  land  of  Dreams  within  its 
hold. 

We  will  cinch  the  saddle  tighter,  tie  the  strings  of 
wide  sombrero. 
While   the  mists  about  the  top  are  gray   and 
dim; 
With  the  eager  trail  uptrending,  and  the  morning 
sky  low  bending — 
Oh,  the  evening  star  will  we  see  o'er  the  rim. 


52  THE  CALL 

When  the  wind  blows  thin  and  keen  about  the 
summit, 
And  the  camp-fire  sparkles  warm  upon  the  brim, 
On  a  couch  of  pine  boughs  fragrant,  who  would 
scorn  to  be  a  vagrant, 
And  follow  when  the  Distance  calls  to  him? 

Cora  D.  Fenton 


THE  COUREUR-DE-BOIS 

In  the  glimmering  light  of  the  Old  Regime 
A  figure  appears  like  the  flashing  gleam 
Of  sunlight  reflected  from  sparkling  stream, 

Or  jewel  without  a  flaw. 
Flashing  and  fading,  but  leaving  a  trace 
In  story  and  song  of  a  hardy  race, 
Finely  fashioned  in  form  and  face — 

The  Old  Coureur-de-Bois. 

No  loiterer  he  'neath  the  sheltering  wing 
Of  ladies'  bowers  where  gallants  sing. 
Thro'  his  woodland  realm  he  roved  a  king! 

His  untamed  will  his  law. 
From  the  wily  savage  he  learned  his  trade 
Of  hunting  and  woodcraft;  of  nothing  afraid: 

As  a  free  Coureur-de-Bois. 

A  brush  with  the  foe,  a  carouse  with  a  friend, 
Were  equally  welcome,  and  made  some  amend 
For   the    gloom    and    silence   and   hardships  that 
tend 

"To  shorten  one's  life,  ma  Jot  J" 


54  THE    COUREUR-DE-HOIS 

A  wife  in  the  hamlet,  another  he'd  take — 
Some  dusky  maid — to  his  camp  by  the  lake; 
A  rattling,  roving,  rollicking  rake 

This  gay  Coureur-de-Bois. 

Then  peace  to  his  ashes!    He  bore  his  part 
For  his  country's  weal  with  a  brave  stout  heart. 
A  child  of  nature,  untutored  in  art, 

In  his  narrow  world  he  saw 
But  the  dawning  light  of  the  rising  sun 
O'er  an  Empire  vast  his  toil  had  won. 
For  doughty  deeds  and  duty  done, 

Salut!  Coureur-de-Bois. 

Samuel  Mathewson  Baylis 


AWAY!  TO  THE  WOODLANDS  AWAY! 
Tune:  "Away  to  the  Stubbles!" 

The  leaves  o'er  the  lea  are  careering, 

The  last  rose  of  summer  is  dead; 
And  jocund  October  is  cheering 

His  friends  with  the  ale-cup  instead. 
Our  efforts  in  vain  we  redouble, 

The  partridge  gets  wilder  each  day; 
The  farmer  up-gathers  the  stubble — 

Then  let's  go  to  the  woodlands  away. 

No  sound,  but  the  cry  of  the  plover. 

Is  heard,  or  the  wild  duck's  afar. 
As  early  we  on  to  the  cover, 

The  pheasant's  gay  plimiage  to  mar. 
Let  Sloth  on  his  down  bed  be  rolling, 

Be  OUTS  through  the  meadows  to  stray, 
All  blithe  as  the  carol  we're  trolling — 

"Away!  to  the  woodlands  away!" 

By  the  old  holly-bush,  where,  up-gushing, 
The  bum  of  the  valley  breaks  forth, 

The  woodcock,  ere  long,  we'll  be  flushing, 
The  stranger  that  comes  from  the  North. 


S6      AWAY!  TO  THE  WOODLANDS  AWAY! 

The  sports  of  each  season  delight  us, 
Not  less  of  July  than  of  May; 

Then  why,  when  October  invites  us. 
Why  not  to  the  woodlands  away? 

At  eve,  Dash  and  Rover  beside  us, 

What  mortals  more  happy  than  we? 
The  sorrows  that  yet  may  betide  us, 

Why  seek  in  the  distance  to  see? 
Enough  for  the  steady  and  sober 

To  antedate  winter's  cold  ray! 
We'll  bumper  the  glass  to  October, 

And  shout,  "To  the  woodlands  away!" 
Henry  Brandreth 


CAMPING  SONG 

Sing  ho,  for  a  camp  on  the  mountain-top 
With  the  breezes  briskly  blowing, 

Where  long  and  bright  the  red  sunlight 
Comes  over  the  valley  glowing! 

And  ho,  for  a  camp  in  the  valley  lands 

Beside  a  writhing  river, 
Whose  silent  flow  of  waters  siow 

Goes  endless  on  forever! 

Sing  ho,  for  a  camp  on  a  sheltered  shore 
With  the  lake  before  it  shining. 

And  a  narrow  strand  of  silvery  sand 
The  water's  margin  lining! 

Then  ho,  for  a  camper's  life  so  free; 

Sing  ho,  for  its  joys  unending, 
With  the  golden  haze  of  the  simimer  days 

All  Nature's  glories  blending! 

Frank  Farrington 


THE   SONG   OF  THE  WOOD'S   DOG-WATCH 

'Tis  the  weirdly  witching  hour  of  the  wood's  "dog- 
watch," 

When  the  guide  suspends  the  kettle  in  the  ash-limb 
crotch, 

Stirs  the  drowsy,  drowsy  embers  till  the  cozy  fire 
beams 

And  flickers  dance  like  gnomes  and  elves  athwart 
the  glowing  dreams 

Of  the  sleeping  town-bred  fisher  who  is  stretched 
with  placid  soul 

On  the  earth  in  sweeter  slimiber  than  his  town 
couch  can  cajole. 

Ah,  'tis  tough  on  bone  and  muscle,  in  this  chasing 
after  fun — 

And  a  sleeper  gets  to  sleeping  forty  knots  along 
'bout  one. 

But  the  guide  is  up  a-stirring — ^monstrous  shape 
with  flaring  torch, 

Prodding  up  the  dozing  fire  for  the  wood's  "dog- 
watch." 

And  the  slow  unclosing  eyelids  of  the  startled 
dreamer  see 

This  dreadful  apparition  thrown  in  shadows  on  a  tree. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOOD'S  DOG-WATCH   59 

And  his  heart  for  just  a  second  goes  to  skirruping 

about  V 

As  it  flopped  when  he  was  wrestling  with  that  five- 
three-quarter  trout. 
But  the  ogre  leaves  the  shadows,  leans  against  a 

handy  tree 
And  remarks:  "The  water's  bilin';  won't  ye  have 

a  cup  o'  tea?" 
And  he  wakes  to  a  night  of  the  fisherman's  June, 
— Afar  the  weird  lilt  of  the  dolorous  loon 
Floats  up  from  the  heart  of  the  fair,  velvet  night — 
A  globule  of  sound  winging  slow  in  its  flight. 
As  elfin  a  note  as  a  gnome  ever  blew. 
It  wells  from  the  waters,  "  Ah-loo-hoo-ah-hoo-0-0-0. " 
O  spell  of  the  forest!     O  glimmer  and  gleam 
From  the  sheen  of  the  lake  and  the  mist-breathing 

stream ! 
The  night  and  the  stars  and  the  dolorous  loon 
Make  mystic  the  spell  of  the  fisherman's  June. 

The  spruces  sing  the  lyric  of  the  wood's  dog-watch; 
The  kettle  as  it  bubbles  in  the  ash  limb's  crotch, 
The  rustle  of  the  spindles  of  the  hemlock  and  the  pine, 
The  crackle  where  the  licking  tongues  of  rudd}' 

fire  twine. 
The  oboe,  in  the  distance,  of  the  weird  and  lone- 
some loon, 
— ^This  chorus  sings  the  lyric  of  the  blessed  month 
of  June. 


6o  THE  SONG  OF  THE  WOOD'S  DOG-WATCH 

What  June?    Your  June  of  meadows  or  your  June 

of  scented  breeze, 
Or  your  June  begirt  with  roses  stretched  in  hammock 

at  her  ease? 
Such  a  deity  for  maidens!     I  can  bow  to  no  such 

June! 
I  extol  the  mystic  goddess  of  the  Forest's  Silent 

Noon. 
— Noon  of  day  or  noon  of  night-time — in  the  vast 

and  silent  deeps, 
Where  human  care  or  himian  woe  or  human  envy 

sleeps, 
Where  rugged  depths  surround  me,  dim  and  silent, 

deep  and  wide, 
And  no  human  shares  my  joy  but  that  second  self, 

my  guide. 
— Here's  a  June  that  one  can  worship.     Here's  a 

June  by  right  a  queen, 
'Neath  her  hand  eternal  mountains,  'neath  her  feet 

eternal  green. 
And  here  will  I  adore  her,  seeking  out  her  awful 

throne. 
With  the  silence  swimming  round  me,  and  alone, 

thank  God,  alone ! 

HOLMAN    F.    D.\Y 


WAYFARER  OF  EARTH 

Up,  heart  of  mine, 

Thou  wayfarer  of  Earth! 

Of  seed  divine, 

Be  mindful  of  thy  birth. 

Though  the  flesh  faint 

Through  long-endured  constraint 

Of  nights  and  days, 

Lift  up  thy  praise 

To  Life,  that  set  thee  in  such  strenuous  ways, 

And  left  thee  not 

To  drowse  and  rot 

In  some  thick-perfumed  and  luxurious  plot. 

Strong,  strong  is  Earth, 
With  vigor  for  thy  feet, 
To  make  thy  wayfaring 
Tireless  and  fleet. 
And  good  is  Earth — 
But  Earth  not  all  thy  good, 
O  thou  with  seed  of  suns 
And  star-fire  in  thy  blood. 


62  WAYFARER  OF  EARTH 

And  though  thou  feel 
The  slow  clog  of  the  hours 
Leaden  upon  thy  heel, 
Put  forth  thy  powers. 
Thine  the  deep  sky, 
The  unpreempted  blue, 
The  haste  of  storm, 
The  hush  of  dew. 
Thine,  thine  the  free 
Exalt  of  star  and  tree. 
The  reinless  run 
Of  wind  and  sun, 
The  vagrance  of  the  sea! 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


THE   SONG  MY  PADDLE   SINGS 

West  wind,  blow  from  your  prairie  nest, 
Blow  from  the  mountains,  blow  from  the  west. 
The  sail  is  idle,  the  sailor  too; 

0  wind  of  the  west,  we  wait  for  you! 
Blow,  blow! 

1  have  wooed  you  so, 

But  never  a  favour  you  bestow. 

You  rock  your  cradle  the  hills  between, 

But  scorn  to  notice  my  white  lateen. 

I  stow  the  sail,  unship  the  mast; 

I  wooed  thee  long  but  my  wooing's  past; 

My  paddle  will  lull  you  into  rest. 

O  drowsy  wind  of  the  drowsy  west, 

Sleep,  sleep. 

By  your  mountain  steep. 

Or  down  where  the  prairie  grasses  sweep! 

Now  fold  in  slumber  your  laggard  wings, 

For  soft  is  the  song  my  paddle  sings. 

August  is  laughing  across  the  sky. 
Laughing  while  paddle,  canoe,  and  I, 


64  THE  SONG  MY   PADDLE  SINGS 

Drift,  drift, 

Where  the  hills  uplift 

On  either  side  of  the  current  swift. 


The  river  rolls  in  its  rocky  bed; 

My  paddle  is  plying  its  way  ahead; 

Dip,  dip, 

When  the  waters  flip 

In  foam  as  over  their  breast  we  slip. 

And  oh,  the  river  runs  swifter  now, 

The  eddies  circle  my  bow! 

Swirl,  swirl! 

How  the  ripples  curl 

In  many  a  dangerous  pool  awhirl! 

And  forward  far  the  rapids  roar, 

Fretting  their  margin  for  evermore 

Dash,  dash, 

With  a  mighty  crash, 

They  seethe,  and  boil,  and  bound,  and  splash. 

Be  strong,  O  paddle!  be  brave,  canoe! 

The  reckless  waves  you  must  plunge  into. 

Reel,  reel. 

On  your  trembling  keel — 

But  never  a  fear  my  craft  will  feel. 


THE  SONG  MY  PADDLE  SINGS  65 

We've  raced  the  rapid;  we're  far  ahead; 

The  river  slips  through  its  silent  bed. 

Sway,  sway, 

As  the  bubbles  spray 

And  fall  in  tinkling  tunes  away. 

And  up  on  the  hills  against  the  sky, 

A  fir  tree  rocking  its  lullaby, 

Swings,  swings. 

Its  emerald  wings. 

Swelling  the  song  that  my  paddle  sings. 

E.  Pauline  Johnson 


MORNING   IN   THE   NORTH-WEST 

Gray  countries  and  grim  empires  pass  away, 
And  all  the  pomp  and  glory  of  citied  towers 
Goes  down  to  dust,  as  Youth  itself  shall  age. 
But  O,  the  splendour  of  this  autumn  dawn, 
This  passes  not  away!     This  dew-drenched  Range, 
This  infinite  great  width  of  open  space, 
This  cool  keen  wind  that  blows  like  God's  own  breath 
On  life's  once  drowsy  coal,  and  thrills  the  blood, 
This  brooding  sea  of  sun-washed  solitude. 
This  virginal  vast  dome  of  opal  air — 
These,  these  endure,  and  greater  are  than  grief! 
Still  there  is  strength:  and  life,  oh,  life  is  good! 
Still  the  horizon  lures,  and  morrow  calls, 
Still  hearts  adventurous  seek  outward  trails, 
Still  life  holds  up  its  tattered  hope! 

For  here 
Is  goodly  air,  and  God's  own  greenness  spread! 
Here  youth  audacious  fronts  the  coming  day 
And  age  on  life  ne'er  mountainously  lies! 
Here  are  no  huddled  cities  old  in  sin, 
Where  coil  in  tangled  langours  all  the  pale 
Envenomed  mirths  that  poisoned  men  of  old. 


MORNING  IN  THE  NORTH-WEST  67 

Where  peering  out  with  ever-narrowing  eyes 
Reptilious  Ease  unwinds  its  golden  scales 
And  slimes  with  ugliness  the  thing  it  eats! 
Here  life  takes  on  a  glory  and  a  strength 
Of  things  still  primal,  and  goes  plunging  on! 
And  what  care  I  of  time-encrusted  tombs, 
What  care  I  here  for  all  the  ceaseless  drip 
Of  tears  in  countries  old  in  tragedy? 
What  care  I  here  for  all  Earth's  creeds  outworn, 
The  dreams  outlived,  the  hopes  to  ashes  turned, 
In  that  old  East  so  dark  with  rain  and  doubt? 
Here  life   swings  glad   and  free  and  rude,   and  I 
Shall  drink  it  to  the  full,  and  go  content! 

Arthur  Stringer 


AN  OLD  HUNTER'S  DAY   DREAM 

There's  a  stillness  in  the  woodland 

When  the  leaves  with  brown  are  kissed, 
When  the  sunlight  warms  the  hillside, 

And  we  dream  of  friends  long  missed; 
When  the  birds  sing  low  and  mournful 

After  mating-time  is  o'er, 
And  the  nests  are  all  forsaken 

By  the  songsters  that  they  bore. 

Fleecy  clouds  across  the  heavens, 

Autumn  haze  hangs  round  the  hills, 
Squirrels  chatter  in  the  tree-tops. 

Sweetly  sing  the  mountain  rills. 
Partridge  dnrnis  in  hazel  thicket, 

Calling,  calling  to  his  mate; 
Air  is  full  of  brown  leaves  falling. 

Leaving  tree-tops  desolate. 

Comes  the  deer  from  yonder  thicket, 
Where  in  hiding  he  has  been. 

Softly  steps  into  the  water. 

Fearful — looking  down  the  glen, 


AN  OLD  HUNTER'S  DAY  DREAM    69 

Head  erect,  ears  keen  for  noises — 
What  a  picture  there  he  makes,      » 

Standing,  listening  like  a  sentry, 
But  to  vanish  in  the  brakes. 


As  the  camp-fire  flickers  dimly, 

Slowly  dying,  burning  low. 
Darker  shadows  creep  about  me, 

But  the  stars  begin  to  glow; 
Gently  sings  the  running  water 

By  my  camp  beneath  the  trees. 
And  I  hear  the  soothing  rustle. 

As  the  night  wind  stirs  the  leaves. 

Gim  and  dog,  my  worldly  treasures, 

Friends  of  many  days  like  these. 
Close  beside  me,  always  trusty. 

With  me  there  beneath  the  trees. 
From  the  hilltops  to  the  valleys 

I  have  roamed  the  woods  afar, 
Going  forth  in  quest  of  pleasure, 

Sleeping  'neath  the  evening  star. 

Visions  these  of  many  Autimms 
When  the  smoky  haze  comes  down. 

Shutting  out  the  far  horizon, 
Shutting  in  the  sleepy  town. 


70    AN  OLD  HUNTER'S  DAY  DREAM 

Days  so  full  of  gorgeous  glory, 
Touching  ev'ry  field  and  hill, 

Painting  there  the  wondrous  story 
Of  God's  magic  hand  and  will. 

Hand  that  paints  the  fields  with  beauty, 

Skill  that  decorates  the  hills, 
Sends  the  water  gushing  from  them. 

Pent  in  rivers,  creeks  and  rills; 
Touches  leaves  with  brown  and  gold  hue. 

Makes  the  flowers  with  color  bright, 
Guards  us  all  with  watchful  kindness 

Through  the  long  and  solemn  night. 

On  the  bank  of  lake  or  river. 

Often  when  the  sun  was  low. 
Built  I  there  my  camp  and  camp-fire, 

Watched  the  shadows  come  and  go. 
Dreaming  dreams  with  fancy  laden — 

Dreams  I've  often  dreamed  before — 
Harking  back  to  other  woodlands, 

Other  days  that  come  no  more. 

So  again  to-night  I'm  thinking, 
Days  of  youth,  of  dog  and  gun, 

Days  of  sport  in  times  now  olden. 
Long  before  life's  span  was  run. 

All  that's  left  is  reminiscence. 


AN  OLD  HUNTER'S  DAY  DREAM    71 

Mem'ry's  tale  of  camp-fires  bright, 
Thrill  of  hunt,  the  tang  of  woods — all  ^ 
Gone,  for  me,  mere  dreams  to-night. 

J.  S.  Whipple 


A   LITTLE   LAKE   OF  AZURE 

Not  for  me  the  rolling  oceans,  not  for  me  the  booming 

seas, 
But  a  little  lake  of  azure  fringed  about  with  stately 

trees, 
Where  the  bass  are  jumping  gayly  with  a  flash  of 

silver  scales, 
Where  it  isn't  far  to  shelter  from  the  sudden  gusty 

gales; 
I  have  little  love  for  tumult,  and  the  sea's  eternal 

roar 
Wearies  me  with  constant  thunder  as  it  breaks  along 

the  shore. 
Let  me  hear  the  soft  winds  sighing  and  the  song  the 

robin  trills 
Round  my  little  lake  of  azure  hidden  deep  among 

the  hills. 

Just  a  little  lake  of  azure  where  the  wake  of  my 

canoe 
Shows  in  tiny  crinkling  wavelets  on  the  clear  pellucid 

blue. 


A  LITTLE  LAKE  OF  AZURE  73 

And  the  "chuckle"  of  the  paddle  as  I  swiftly  slide 

along 
Seems  to  find   a  gurgling  echo  in   some  careless 

warbler's  song; 
Water  full  of    laughing    ripples,  air  suffused  with 

faint  perfimie 
Sort  of  mingled  of  the  forest  and  some  distant 

meadow's  bloom; 
One  man  loves  the  mountain  torrents,  others  rave 

of  "purling  rills," 
But  for  me  a  lake  of  azure  hidden  deep  among  the 

hills. 

Just  a  little  lake  of  azure  and  a  friend  I  love  to  share 
Something  of  the  warm  contentment  I  am  always 

finding  there, 
Something  I  can  smoke  and  talk  to,  some  one  never 

sapped  of  joy, 
Some  one  not  afraid  of  nature,  not  afraid  to  be  a  boy; 
Who  can  swim  the  waters  with  me,  fish  or  laze  or 

row  or  tramp, 
Who  can  swing  an  easy  paddle,  who  knows  how  to 

make  a  camp; 
Give  me  such  a  bonny  comrade — all  my  longing 

he  fulfills— 
At  my  little  lake  of  azure  hidden  deep  among  the 

hills. 

Berton  Braley 


OVER  THE   DECOYS 

Low  lies  the  tawny  marsh,  and  lily-pads, 

All  crisped  and  wrinkled  by  the  Autumn  sun, 

Swing  lazily  along  the  sighing  reeds; 

And  rudely  against  the  rising  stm 

The  ever-restless  waters  ripple  up, 

Prying  amid  the  rushes,  and  again, 

Upon  the  roots  of  dwarfish  willow  stubs. 

Lapping  and  lapping  like  a  thirsty  hound; 

And  in  an  open  space  beyond  the  reeds, 

Riding,  like  corks,  the  little  ruffled  waves. 

Decoys  are  seen,  those  fateful  wooden  lures 

That  draw  the  passing  ducks  from  cloudy  heights 

Down,  down,  and  down  until  the  sportman's  aim 

Sends  consternation  to  their  scattered  ranks; 

And  at  the  edges  of  the  cat-tails  tall. 

Among  the  rushes  and  the  spatter-dock, 

A  hunter  waits,  all  watchful,  in  the  "blind," 

Whose  rough,  artistic  tracing  seems  to  be. 

With  all  its  tangled  drapery  of  reeds. 

Wild  rice  and  grass,  and  leaning  willow-branch — 

Like  elfin  work  of  nature  and  the  winds. 

Mark!  far  adown  the  distant  line  of  trees 


OVER  THE  DECOYS  75 

A  narrow,  dusky  ribbon  is  revealed, 

That  nearer  comes,  and  as  it  comes  unfolds, 

And  shows  in  all  their  symmetry  of  form 

A  flock  of  ducks  outlined  upon  the  sky, 

Curving  and  wheeling  in  the  morning  light. 

And  as  they  near  the  hunter's  ambuscade 

They  turn,  they  stoop,  while  he,  with  muscles  set 

And  tense  as  steel,  and  eager,  shining  eyes. 

Sits  like  a  stone,  his  gun  within  his  hands. 

The  winds  are  hushed.     Ah!  what  a  picture  that — 

The  bluebills  settling  to  the  still  decoys! 

Ernest  McGaffey 


HUNTER'S  SONG 

When  the  knowing  robins  build, 

With  love  calls,  all  the  day, 
Then  you'll  hear  a  ditty  trilled — 

Ho,  Jenny's  calling,  hie  away! 

Hark!  with  rifle  hanging  high, 
The  tramping  dogs  chained  home, 

Now,  my  cabin,  now,  good-by, 

It's  home,  my  Jenny,  girl,  I  come!— 

Mighty  shy,  your  maiden's  love, 

Enough  the  faintest  sound: 
For  every  stream  that  runs  above, 

A  thousand  trickle  underground. 

First  I'll  wound  her — shame,  the  crime! — 

Hang  low,  you  pretty  head: 
Jenny,  girl,  the  sweet  wild  thyme 

Is  sweeter  for  the  hunter's  tread. 

John  Vance  Cheney 


HAVE  YOU? 

Have  you  ever  built  a  camp-fire  at  the  closing  of 
the  day? 
Have  you  sat  and  watched  the  embers  glowing 
red? 
With  your  scanty  supper  finished  and  the  things  all 
cleared  away, 
Have  you  sat  and  smoked  and  thought  about 
your  bed? 
Of  the  bed  you  left  behind  you  in  the  dwelling-place 
of  man, 
In  the  much  o'er-fumished  room  you  knew  of  yore; 
Ere  you  sought  the  silent  places  where  a  fellow 
learns  he  can 
Do  a  lot  of  things  he  never  did  before? 

Have  you  ever  spread  a  blanket  down  beneath  the 
star-strewn  skies? 
Rolled  yourself  within  its  cozy  folds  to  sleep, 
At  the  base  of  mighty  mountains,  with  their  peaks 
that  rise  and  rise? 
Have  you  known  the  age-old  silence  that  they 
keep? 


78  HAVE  YOU? 

Have  you  seen  the  red  sun  climbing  up  the  eastern 
slope?     Then  know 
You  will  ne'er  forget  those  rugged,  happy  days. 
What!    You've  never  known  the  glory  of  the  new- 
bom  day?    Then  go — 
It's  a  road  that's  hard  to  travel — but  it  pays. 

Harry  M.  D&an 


GYPSY  SONG 

Glad  am  I  of  Life,  my  Lad; 

I  love  the  great  world  round, 
The  scent  of  grass,  the  songs  of  birds, 

The  river's  rush  and  bound. 
The  trees  that  sing  in  the  wind,  Lad, 

The  stars  by  night,  the  sun  by  day, 
And  You  beside  me  on  the  Road, 

Over  the  world  and  away. 

I  snap  my  fingers  at  Worry, 

And  laugh  in  the  face  of  Care, 
I'm  clad  in  rags  and  glad  of  them. 

The  breezes  dress  my  hair. 
Flowers  are  my  jewels, 

A  pool  my  mirror  bright; 
And  after  the  day's  long  wander, 

A  bed  of  boughs  at  night. 

With  your  two  arms  about  me, 
I  wake  when  the  first  bird  sings. 

And  the  squandering  sun  o'er  the  hillsides, 
A  new,  gold  day  wide  flings. 


8o  GYPSY  SONG 

Then  up,  for  the  Road  is  calling, 
To  the  trail  we  are  ever  true; 

I  dance  with  the  wind  and  sing,  Lad, 
Laugh  and  am  loved  by  You! 

Judith  Dudley 


THE  OLD  CANOE 

Where  the  rocks  are  gray  and  the  shore  is  steep, 
And  the  waters  below  look  dark  and  deep, 
Where  the  rugged  pine,  in  its  lonely  pride, 
Leans  gloomily  over  the  murky  tide, 
Where  the  reeds  and  rushes  are  long  and  rank, 
And  the  weeds  grow  thick  on  the  winding  bank. 
Where  the  shadow  is  heavy  the  whole  day  through, 
There  lies  at  its  moorings  the  old  canoe. 

The  useless  paddles  are  idly  dropped, 

Like  a  sea-bird's  wings  that  the  storm  has  lopped. 

And  crossed  on  the  railing  one  o'er  one, 

Like  the  folded  hands  when  the  work  is  done; 

While  busily  back  and  forth  between 

The  spider  stretches  his  silvery  screen, 

And  the  solemn  owl,  with  his  dull  "too-hoo, " 

Settles  down  on  the  side  of  the  old  canoe. 

The  stem,  half-sunk  in  the  slimy  wave. 
Rots  slowly  away  in  its  living  grave. 
And  the  green  moss  creeps  o'er  its  dull  decay, 
Hiding  its  mouldering  dust  away. 


82  THE  OLD  CANOE 

Like  the  hand  that  plants  o'er  the  tomb  a  flower, 
Or  the  ivy  that  mantles  the  falling  tower; 
While  many  a  blossom  of  loveliest  hue 
Springs  up  in  the  stem  of  the  old  canoe. 

The  currentless  waters  are  dead  and  still, 

But  the  light  wind  plays  with  the  boat  at  will, 

And  lazily  in  and  out  again 

It  floats  the  length  of  the  rusty  chain, 

Like  the  weary  march  of  the  hands  of  time, 

That  meet  and  part  at  the  noontide  chime; 

And  the  shore  is  kissed  at  each  turning  anew, 

By  the  dripping  bow  of  the  old  canoe. 

Oh,  many  a  time  with  a  careless  hand 

I  have  pushed  it  away  from  the  pebbly  strand, 

And  paddled  it  down  where  the  stream  runs  quick. 

Where  the  whirls  are  wild  and  the  eddies  are  thick, 

And  laughed  as  I  leaned  o'er  the  rocking  side. 

And  looked  below  in  the  broken  tide. 

To  see  that  the  faces  and  boats  were  two, 

That  were  mirrored  back  from  the  old  canoe. 

But  now,  as  I  lean  o'er  the  crumbling  side. 
And  look  below  in  the  sluggish  tide^ 
The  face  that  I  see  there  is  graver  grown, 
And  the  laugh  that  I  hear  has  a  soberer  tone. 
And  the  hands  that  lent  to  the  light  skiff  wings 
Have  grown  familiar  with  sterner  things. 


THE  OLD  CANOE  83 

But  I  love  to  think  of  the  hours  that  sped 
As  I  rocked  where  the  whirls  their  white  spray  shed, 
Ere  the  blossoms  waved,  or  the  sweet  grass  grew 
O'er  the  mouldering  stem  of  the  old  canoe. 

Albert  Pike 


A  TASTE  O'   MAINE 

The  tote-road  beckons  through  the  pines! 

To  packs  and  trails  again! 
Come,  "Bucko"!  drop  your  drear  designs 

And  take  a  taste  o'  Maine! 

Your  legs  may  weary  of  the  tramp, 

Your  shoulders  stiffen,  sore; 
But  there'll  be  balm  in  every  camp 

When  the  day's  jaunt  is  o'er! 

And  then  how  good   the   coffee  '11   smell! 

How  good  the  trout  and  bacon! 
For  every  joy  a  blessed  bell 

Of  memory  will  awaken! 

The  music  that  the  mart  has  stilled 

Will  bubble  up  again — 
Come,  "Bucko,"  boy!  the  kits  are  billed; 

We'll  take  a  taste  o'  Maine! 

Leroy  Melville  Tufts 


THE  UNNAMED  LAKE 

It  sleeps  among  the  thousand  hills 

Where  no  man  ever  trod, 
And  only  nature's  music  fills 

The  silences  of  God. 

Great  mountains  tower  above  its  shore, 

Green  rushes  fringe  its  brim, 
And  o'er  its  breast  for  evermore 

The  wanton  breezes  skim. 

Dark  clouds  that  intercept  the  sun 

Go  there  in  Spring  to  weep, 
And  there,  when  Autumn  days  are  done, 

White  mists  lie  down  to  sleep. 

Sururise  and  sunset  crown  with  gold 

The  pinks  of  ageless  stone, 
Her  winds  have  thundered  from  of  old 

And  storms  have  set  their  throne. 

No  echoes  of  the  world  afar 

Disturb  it  night  or  day, 
The  sun  and  shadow,  moon  and  star, 

Pass  and  repass  for  aye. 


86  THE  UNNAMED  LAKE 

'Twas  in  the  gray  of  early  dawn, 
When  first  the  lake  we  spied, 

And  fragments  of  a  cloud  were  drawn 
Half  down  the  mountain-side. 

Along  the  shore  a  heron  flew, 

And  from  a  speck  on  high. 
That  hovered  in  the  deepening  blue. 

We  heard  the  fish -hawk's  cry. 

Among  the  cloud-capt  solitudes, 

No  sound  the  silence  broke, 
Save  when,  in  whispers  down  the  woods, 

The  guardian  mountains  spoke. 

Through  tangled  brush  and  dewy  brake. 

Returning  whence  we  came, 
We  passed  in  silence,  and  the  lake 

We  left  without  a  name. 

Frederick  George  Scott 


THE  JOYS  OF  FOWLING 

Of  all  the  joys  that  sporting  yields, 
Give  me  to  beat  the  stubble-fields 

Quite  early  in  September: 
A  brace  of  pointers,  staunch  and  true, 
A  gun  that  kills  whate'er  I  view, 
I  care  not  whether  old  or  new. 

Are  things  one  must  remember. 

Old  Ponto  makes  a  famous  point, 
As  marble  stiff,  in  ev'ry  joint. 

I  cautiously  proceed. 
When  quickly  up  the  covey  fly — 
Bang,  bang — both  barrels  then  I  try — 
And  lo!  a  brace  before  me  lie. 

The  shooter's  richest  meed. 

If  hares  I  want  for  friends  in  town, 
I  can  tell  where  to  knock  them  down 

Within  the  furze-brush  cover. 
As  leash  I  bag,  then  homeward  go. 
My  spirits  all  in  joyous  flow. 
And  more  deHght,  I'm  sure,  I  know, 

Than  doth  a  beauty's  lover. 


88  THE  JOYS  OF  FOWLING 

In  wintry  woods,  when  leaves  are  dead, 
And  hedges  beam  with  berries  red, 

The  pheasant  is  my  spoil. 
Fenc'd  with  high  gaiters  out  I  go, 
And  beat  through  tangled  bushes  low; 
Each  joy  of  mine  my  spaniels  know, 

Through  wand'ring  many  a  mile. 

At  night  rettun'd,  my  bag  well  fill'd, 
Perchance  four  brace  of  pheasants  kill'd, 

I  sit  me  down  in  peace. 
And  envy  not  ambition's  cares, 
Nor  e'en  the  crown  a  monarch  wears, 
Such  joys  as  mine  he  seldom  shares — 

Oh,  may  that  joy  ne'er  cease. 

Old  English  Song 


TO  MY  CAMPING  FRIEND 

So,  in  defiance  of  all  oui-  time-worn  ways 
Compelling  us  to  homes  of  brick  and  mortar, 
Thou,  on  the  broad  hillside,  thy  tent  must  raise 
Where  golden  gorse  and  purple  heather  blaze, 
True     Mother     Natiire's    Child!  —  her    camping 
daughter. 

They  call  me,  with  a  cup  of  tea,  at  seven! 

And,  even  so,  complainingly  I  rise! 

Whilst  thou,  dear  maid,  in  the  pink  flush  of 
Heaven, 

Face  sun-bathed,  feet  dew-washed,  and  hair  wind- 
driven, 

Scomest  such  poor  conventionalities. 

Birds  to  thy  call  shall  come.     The  linnets  shy, 
Watch   for   thy   feet    through   furze   and   bracken 

gleaming; 
And  thou  shalt  understand  the  curlew's  cry. 
The  jay's  harsh  note,  the  thrush's  melody, 
The    wood    owl's     hoot,    around     thy    place    of 

dreaming. 


90  TO  MY  CAMPING   FRIEND 

Nor  fear — nor  loneliness — shall  thee  oppress, 
For  Nature's  heart  is  large,  and  very  kind: 
She  shall  unfold  to  thee  her  mysteries, 
And  thou,  as  wise  as  any  Socrates, 
Shall  learn  her  laws,  and  her  companions  find. 

Perchance,  when  under  Heaven's  star-lighted  dome. 
Like  a  white  nun,  for  absolution  kneeling, 
Thou'lt  send  a  prayer  to  the  wide  skies  for  some 
Who,  like  myself,  rest  in  prim  Villadom, 
Protected  by  four  walls  and  a  square  ceiling. 

Elizabeth  Kirk 


A   NIGHT  SONG  OF  THE   CAMP 

Spread  your  blankets  round  the  camp-fire,  where 

the  leaping  flames  aspire, 

And  the  sparks  fly  up  to  greet  old  ruddy  Mars ; 

Catch  the  music  of  the  night  wind  stirring  soft  each 

leafy  lyre, 

As  it  breathes  fraternal  whispers  from  the  stars. 

Watch  the  stiff  "old  family"  mulleins  nod  their 
heads  athwart  the  dark 
Like  the  pride  of  aristocracy  decayed; 
While  the  working  Sinnissippi  moves  along  without 
remark, 
Turning    wheels, — yet    bearing    sky    and    richer 
shade. 

For  the  whip-poor-will's  sweet  sorrow  lean  a  sympa- 
thetic ear 
As  below  the  bluff  it  calls  remote  and  sad; 
While  the  katydid  keeps  harping  on  its  one  rough 
note  severe, 
And   the   crickets   pipe   their  chorus  clear  and 
glad. 


92  A   NIGHT  SONG  OF  THE  CAMP 

And  above  the  sounds  of  night-time  list  the  story's 
ghostly  end, 
When  the  teller's  gruesome  voice  grows  low  and 
strange; 
Nor  forget  to  swell  the  laughter,  like  a  friend  that 
helps  a  friend, 
At  the  joke  that  only  friends  can  interchange. 

As  the  reddened  embers  crumble  in  the  ashes  gray 

and  soft, 

And  the  watchful  stars  wink  faster  in  the  sky. 

Lend  a  voice  in  fullest  measure  to  the  song  that 

goes  aloft 

When  the  campers  sing  the  joys  that  never  die: 

O  the  fire-flash  and  the  star-dust  and  tlie  wittd  among 
the  leaves, 
Ajtd  the  mystery  of  all  the  secret  night; 
And  the  beauty  close  about  us  that  our  mother  Nature 
weaves, 
And  the  sweetness  that  she  pours  for  our  delight! 
Horace  Spencer  Fiske 


HUNTER'S   MOON 

When  the  hunter's  moon  imperious 

Shines  on  mountainside  and  glen, 
Then  a  fellow  feels  delirious 

With  the  joy  of  life  again. 
Gone  are  heat-waves,  dog-days,  thunder, 

Swept  away  by  Autumn's  gales; 
Now  the  quail  are  hiding  under 

Bronzing  brakes  in  frosty  swales. 
Hark!  the  hounds,  their  deep-toned  'cello 

Sounds  alarum  to  the  coon. 
Welcome!  welcome!  to  a  fellow, 

Mellow,  yellow  hunter's  moon! 

Trees  on  mountains,  strong,  abiding, 

Cast  a  lessening  leafy  shade; 
Now  a  deer  and  fawn  are  hiding 

Deep  in  moonlit  ferny  glade. 
From  the  burr's  brown  prickly  cover, 

Lined  with  creamy,  shining  plush, 
Chestnuts  drop,  near  by  where  hover 

Squirrels  in  dun  underbrush. 


94  HUNTER'S  MOON 

Oh,  the  hounds,  with  full-stringed  'cello! 

Oh,  the  cornfields  and  the  coon! 
Welcome!  welcome!  to  a  fellow. 

Mellow,  yellow  hunter's  moon! 

B.  A.  Hitchcock 


THE   HUNTER 

One  came  chasing  the  fallow  deer 
When  all  the  wood  was  green, 

But  through  my  heart  an  arrow  went 
That  ne'er  by  him  was  seen — 

Ah  me! 
That  ne'er  by  him  was  seen. 

One  came  hunting  the  eagle  king 
When  all  the  wood  was  brown, 

But  over  me  a  lure  was  cast 

That  dragged  my  proud  heart  down — 

Ah  me! 
That  dragged  my  proud  heart  down. 

One  came  tracking  the  mighty  boar 

When  all  the  wood  was  white, 
But  from  my  wound  the  red  drops  fell 
That  guided  him  that  night — 

Ah  me! 
That  guided  him  that  night. 

Josephine  Daskam 


AFRICAN    GAME 

Most  beautiful  those  roving  tribes, 

The  antelopes,  the  bounding  deer, 
The  wild  deer  of  the  Afric  land. 

So  fleet,  so  graceful  in  career. 
The  blessbok  and  the  springbok  swift, 

The  oryx,  steinbok,  and  hartbeest, 
The  quagga,  pallah,  and  the  gnu. 

That  o'er  the  boundless  pastures  feast, 
Have  since  Creation's  dawning  rang'd 

Those  grassy  pastures,  green  and  vast; 
And  countless  summers  have  beheld 

Those  wild  herds  speeding  far  and  fast. 
Free  denizens  of  wood  and  glade, 

Of  prairie  broad,  of  flower^'  plain, 
The  savage  tribes  may  scarce  molest ; 

Their  spears  and  arrows  are  in  vain, 
They  range  the  mountain  foot,  they  plunge 

In  hidden  gorge,  in  ravine  dim, 
They  speed  across  the  craggy  slopes. 

Along  the  bending  grass  they  skim. 


AFRICAN  GAME  97 

By  fountains  in  the  desert's  heart 

Where  leans  the  palm-tree  o'er  the  wave, 
They  come  consuming  thirst  to  quench, 

Their  panting  flanks'  to  dip  and  lave. 
The  blessbok,  noblest  of  the  herds, 

Loveliest  with  all  the  rainbow  dyes, 
Purple  and  violet  and  brown, 

Like  mingled  glories  of  the  skies, 
Is  e'er  so  shy,  so  fleet  of  foot. 

That  vain  is  hunter's  hot  pursuit. 
The  black  wild-beest,  a  bolder  race. 

Fly  not  with  all  the  flying  crew, 
But  wheel  in  mazy  circles  round, 

Tempting  the  hunter  to  pursue; 
In  evolutions  intricate, 

Like  dragoons  skirmishing  in  war. 
They  circling  caper  round  the  hunt. 

Now  swooping  near,  now  scatter'd  far. 
While  hunters  charge  one  herd  in  front 

Another  gathers  in  the  way, — 
Fierce  cossacks  of  the  desert  space, 

Now  menacing,  now  brought  to  bay. 

Isaac  McLellan 


HUNTER'S   CAMP  AT   NIGHT 

In  the  thick  darkness  of  the  midnij:,'ht  woods, 

I  sit  alone  within  my  hemlock  camp, 
Silent  and  thoughtful.     All  about  me  rise 
The  dark,  columnar  giants  of  the  wild, — 
Funereal  hemlock  and  majestic  pine. 
The  gnarled  oak-tree  and  the  quivering  birch. 

And  how  profotmd  the  hush !  when  evening  threw 
Its  glimmering  shades  across  these  forest  aisles 
The  mingled  voices  of  the  living  world 
Died  out,  and  birds  and  creatures  of  the  wild  were 

still, 
The  woodpecker  its  drum-like  tappings  ceas'd. 
The  partridge  sought  her  nest;  the  pied  bluejay 
Ceas'd  its  harsh  clamor,  and  the  pigeon  wild 
Folded  its  azure  pinions  and  was  still. 
As  shades  fell  deep  in  tangled  copse  and  glade. 
The  cawing  crow-flocks  settled  from  their  flight, 
The  high-fiying  hawks  descended  from  the  air. 
And  silence  all  around  me  wove  its  spell. 

The  tall  black  trunks  of  the  great  forest  kings 
That  hedg'd  me  round  seem'd  all  instinct  with  life; 
Seem'd  to  my  fever' d  fancy  like  the  forms 
Of  the  barbaric  warriors  who  once  trod 


HUNTER'S  CAMP  AT  NIGHT  99 

These  lonely  wilds,  majestic,  stem,  and  grave, — 
Those  feather'd  forest  chieftains,  grim,  severe. 
Painted  for  war  and  terrible  with  arms, 
With  quiver,  shield,  and  club,  and  lofty  spear. 
Then  thro'  the  thickening  glooms  would  seem  to  shine 
The  eyeballs  of  wild  creatures,  wolf  and  bear, 
And  great  imperial  stag  with  branching  horns; 
But  when  I  snatch'd  my  rifle  they  would  seem 
To  disappear,  and  melt  away  from  sight. 

Then  sudden  from  the  dry  dead  leaves  around 
I  rais'd  a  camp-fire  that  illum'd  the  woods, 
And  caus'd  how  strange  a  change!    The  sombre 

shades 
Vanish'd  away,  and  the  rough  boles  of  trees 
Thro'  all  their  drooping  foliage  shone  and  smil'd 
In  the  blithe,  cheerful  radiance  of  my  fire; 
So  all  the  phantom  spectres  fled  away. 

As  in  my  hemlock  camp  I  sank  to  rest, 
I  felt  secure  in  such  companionship 
Of  those  red  flames  that  seem'd  to  guard  my  couch, 
And  all  the  shapes  that  fancy  conjur'd  forth 
Vanish'd  like  dreams — and  rest  and  sleep  were  sweet. 

Isaac  McLellan 


A  HUNTING  SONG 

The  yachtsman  sinj:;^s  of  the  bounding  waves 

And  a  hfe  on  the  deep  blue  sea — 
Of  a  bark  that  bows  to  the  crested  surge, 

And  the  breath  of  the  ocean  free. 
But  give  me  a  dog  that  is  keen  of  scent, 

And  a  gun  that  is  tried  and  true. 
An  Autimm  day  when  the  dawn  wind  stirs. 

And  the  woods  that  are  steeped  in  dew. 
There  is  the  sport  that  is  best  of  all, 

In  the  light  of  the  forest  gray; 
For  what  can  excel  the  keen  delight 

Of  hunting  at  break  of  day! 

Let  others  sing  of  the  trout  that  leap 

From  the  pools  in  the  rippling  brook, 
And  the  thrill  of  joy  as  the  click-reel  hums 

When  the  "good  ones"  rise  to  the  hook. 
But  sing  me  the  song  of  the  sylvan  glades, 

And  the  echoing  rifle  call. 
As  it  rings  out  clear  on  the  frosty  air. 

From  brush  by  the  old  stone  wall. 


A  HUNTING  SONG  loi 

Ah,  that  is  the  song  that  I  love  the  best, 
And  a  song  that  is  sweet  alway — 

The  song  that  breathes  of  the  Autumn  woods — 

Of  hunting  at  break  of  day. 

W.  Tyler  Olcott 
8 


NORTH   WOODS  LIVIN* 

Up  whar  the  mountains  split  the  flyin'  clouds  in 

two, 
An'  the  pine  woods  is  towerin'  with  the  streams 

a-flashin'  thro', 
An'  the  strong,  bracin'  odor  o'  the  hemlocks  comes 

ter  me, 
It's  thar  I'm  a-longin'  an'  a-hungerin'  ter  be! 
Whar  the  hemlock  camp  is  built  on  the  side  o'  the 

hill, 
An'  the  log-fire  is  roarin'  like  the  grindin'  o'  the 

mill, 
Thar  we   spread  spruce  branches  for  a   soft   an' 

scented  bed. 
While   the   strong  wind   is  shoutin'   in   the   pines 

overhead. 
Min  comes  along  the  stream  with  his  sharp  eyes 

out 
An'   a  quick  light   hand   fer    the  flashin',    shinin' 

trout ; 
Then  Doc  comes  through  the  woods  with  his  gim  on 

his  arm, 
An'  the  robins  an'  the  partridges  is  like  ter  come 

ter  harm! 


NORTH  WOODS  LIVIN'  103 

Then  when  they  git  ter  camp,  an'  dinner-time  is 

near, 
That's  a  sizzlin'  an'  a  fryin'  it  would  melt  yer  heart 

ter  hear. 
Doc  turns  the  juicy  birds  a-brownin'  in  the  fire, 
An'  makes  steamin'  coffee  ye  could  drink  an'  never 

tire ; 
Min  sends  the  flapjacks  up  a-whirlin'  ter  the  sky 
A-swearin'  an'  a-cussin'  tell  he  gits  'em  on  the  fly. 
The  fresh  trout  is  sizzlin'  tell  ye'll  eat  'em  tails 

an'  all; 
An'  then  ye  set  an'  stuff  yerself  ontell  yer  like  ter 

fall. 
Thar's  Moose  River  flyin'  down  the  rapids  white 

with  foam, 
An'  the  air — ^wal,  thar's  nothin'  ter  compare  with  it 

ter  home. 
The  smell  o'  the  wood-fire — thar's  nothin'  half  so 

good; 
An'  the  damdest  biggest  appetite  ye  ever  set  ter 

food! 
Ye  may  talk  o'  Delmonico's — it's  fine,  I'll  agree. 
But  North  Woods  livin'  is  good  enough  fer  me! 

Florence  E.  Pratt 


A  VAGABOND   SONG 

There  is  something  in  the  Autumn  that  is  native 

to  my  blood — 
Touch  of  manner,  hint  of  mood; 
And  my  heart  is  Hke  a  rhyme, 
With  the  yellow  and  the  purple  and  the  crimson 

keeping  time. 

The  scarlet  of  the  maples  can  shake  me  like  a  cry 

Of  bugles  going  by. 

And  my  lonely  spirit  thrills 

To  see  the  frosty  asters  like  smoke  upon  the  hills. 

There  is  something  in  October  sets  the  gipsy  blood 

astir ; 
We  must  rise  and  follow  her, 
When  from  every  hill  of  flame 
She  calls  and  calls  each  vagabond  by  name. 

Bliss  Carman 


CANOE  SONG  OF  THE  NORTH 

On  lakes  adream  our  paddles  gleam, 

Ashore  the  grim  pines  croon; 
On  waves  of  light  we  ride  the  bright 

Gold  highways  of  the  moon. 
Past  reedy  isles  where  siimmer  smiles, 

Ho,  merry  bark,  let's  go 
And  find  the  way  of  Nicollet — 

The  footsteps  of  Perrot! 

To  glide  and  creep  on  worlds  that  sleep, 

Where  waking  wild  fowl  scream; 
To  drone  and  drift,  till  rivers  lift 

Their  luring  banks  abeam; 
And  then,  and  then,  to  face  again 

The  white-tipped  rapid's  roar, 
And  battle-spent,  to  shore  and  tent! 

Ah,  who  would  ask  for  more? 

Venetian  ways  are  sweet  with  lays 

That  sailing  lovers  sing! 
And  lakes  are  fair  in  Alpine  air, 

Whence  castled  rivers  swing; 


io6  CANOE  SONG  OK  THE   NORTH 

But  over  sea,  for  you  and  me, 

Our  dearer  waters  flow 
Where  lies  the  way  of  Nicollet, 

The  footsteps  of  Perrot! 

Chester  Firkins 


THE   HUNTER'S   PARADISE 

I  want  a  home,  a  perfect  dream, 

Away  from  all  the  haunts  of  man, 
Beside  some  winding  mountain  stream 

That  wash  her  rocks  and  golden  sand. 
Where  I  can  roam  or  take  my  ease 

When  twilight's  dreamy  shadows  fall, 
Where  wafts  the  music  on  the  breeze 

Of  howling  wolves  or  panther's  call. 

I  want  a  home  where  I  can  see 

Old  nature  in  her  youthful  bloom. 
Away  from  all  that  hampers  me, 

Where  city  life  is  filled  with  gloom. 
I  want  to  live  where  I  can  get 

The  pleasures  that  belong  to  me, 
With  one  true  friend  that  can't  forget 

This  world  was  made  for  such  as  we. 

I  want  a  home  all  decked  in  green. 
Where  towering  peaks  rise  far  and  high. 

And  shady  dales  lurk  in  between 
Beneath  the  azure  Summer  sky; 


io8  THE  HUNTER'S   PARADISE 

Where   balmy  Spring   her  beauty   crimps 
And  warbling  songsters  pipe  by  day, 

And  lovely  bands  of  mountain  nymphs 
With  fairies  dance  the  nights  away. 

I  want  a  home,  a  rustic  cot — 

The  mansion  has  no  charm  for  me; 
I  want  it  in  some  quiet  spot 

Away  from  care  and  sorrow  free, 
Beside  some  restless,  limpid  stream, 

Where  I  can  stroll  at  break  of  day. 
And  cast  my  hook  in  fancy's  dream 

Where  rainbow  trout  and  cropy  play. 

I  want  a  home  where  nature  dwells. 

Away  from  all  the  city's  throng, 
Where  bob-o-link  sings  in  the  dells 

With  merry  note  and  warbling  song, 
Where  cedars  grace  the  mountain  chain 

And  wooded  vales  are  green  and  gay, 
With  some  good  friend  that  feels  the  same 

We'd  let  the  future  fade  away. 

I  want  a  home  where  I  can  take 
My  boat  and  gun  and  come  and  go, 

Or  paddle  over  stream  and  lake 

With  some  dear  friend  like  one  I  know, 


THE  HUNTER'S   PARADISE  109 

Where  twilight  shadows  gently  sway- 
When  Autimin's  frosty  nights  appear, 

And  watch  the  wilderness  at  play. 

Would  fill  a  sportsman's  heart  with  cheer. 

I'd  like  a  home,  not  made  by  hands 

That  carve  the  marble  or  the  stone — 
A  cave  where  ancient  roving  bands 

Have  left  their  bleach'd,  cadav'rous  bones; 
Where  little  limpid  streamlets  play 

Among  the  nodding  daffodils. 
And  murmur  on  their  devious  way 

Among  the  ferns  and  grassy  hills. 

I  want  a  home  where  I  can  see 

When  Autumn  days  their  pleasures  bring; 
The  mountain  crags  so  dear  to  me 

And  fading  scenes  of  vanished  Spring, 
When  Indian  Summer's  fires  glow, 

I  love  to  watch  the  smoky  haze, 
Or  trail  the  wild  buck  and  his  doe 

Through  scenes  of  wildest,  deepest  maze. 

C.  M.  Stewart 


THE   WILDERNESS  CALL 

When  the  ducks  are  all  a-squawkin'  on  the  silver 

lakes  at  night, 
And  the  air  is  sort  o'  brisk-like,  tanged  with  pine 

and  frost  and  fight, 
And  the  forest  leaves  are  tumin'  into  red  and  gold 

and  brown, 
And  the  pa'tridge  are  a-drummin'  and  a-scurr}'in' 

on  the  groun' — 
Do  you  ever  feel  like  hikin'  for  the  woods,  and 

twilight  sun, 
To  breathe  down  deep,  to  pull  an  oar,  and  tinker 

with  a  gun? 

When  the  night  owl  starts  a-hootin',  and  the  whip- 
poor-will's  awake, 

And  the  squirrels  have  quit  their  fussin',  and  the 
loon  laughs  from  the  lake, 

And  the  frisky  buck  is  splashin'  in  the  lilied  shore 
near  by. 

And  the  bull-frog  starts  a-chuggin',  and  the  fire's 
a-roarin'  high — 


THE  WILDERNESS  CALL  iii 

Do  you  ever  feel  like  smokin',  kind  o'  quiet -like 

and  still, 
A-dreamin'  dreams  and  thinkin'  things  that  make 

you  throb  and  thrill? 

Now   you   talk   about   your  fightin'    Greed,    'bout 

Business,  Civic  Strife — 
The  sport  of  rulin'  nations  and  of  gettin'  fame  in  life. 
Do  you  know  the  joy  of  fightin'  Things  that  snoop 

aroun'  and  growl? 
Of    swingin'    through    dark,    wintry    storms,    and 

hearin'  things  that  howl — 
Of  squattin'  by  the  starlit  lake  as  your  moose  goes 

crashin'  by — 
Of  quarrelin'  with  wee  furry  folk,  of  singin'  to  the  sky  ? 

No?    Then  turn  with  me  to  the  Wilderness,  to  the 

hills  of  the  sighing  pine. 
Where  we'll  cruise  the  lonesome  timber,  know  each 

star  and  flower  and  vine; 
Where  we'll  learn  the  joy  of  livin'  by  the  sunlit 

brook  and  pool, 
In  the  Kingdom  of  the  Forest,  where  sheer  brawn 

and  courage  rule. 
Then   turn   with  me   to   the   Wilderness,   through 

wood,  on  land,  on  sea. 
To  drink  life  deep,  where  man's  a  man,  red-blooded — 

lusty — free ! 

Lew  R.  Sarett 


WITH  THE  MALLARD   DRAKE 

Oh,  for  a  day  in  the  white  wind's  cheek! 

To  share  the  mallard's  stroke  of  power, 
The  electric  spark  in  the  tip  of  his  beak, 

And  flying  a  hundred  miles  an  hour! 
With  his  throbbing  pulse  the  air  to  beat — 

The  swift  wild  duck ;  the  beautiful  thing ! 
The  strength  of  the  sun  in  his  yellow  feet, 

The  purple  of  night  asleep  on  his  breast, 
The  green  of  a  thousand  Junes  on  his  crest, 

The  bank  of  the  heavens  across  his  wing! 

To  alight  and  drink  in  the  frothing  rings 

That  circle  away  to  the  greening  gap; 
To  stop  for  the  noonday  feast  of  kings — 

The  crimson  seeds  in  the  marsh's  lap; 
To  forget  where  the  city's  white  flags  bum. 

And  know  but  the  deep  air's  quivering  thrills; 
The  mystery  of  his  flight  to  learn. 

To  follow  the  way  the  wild  duck  takes, 
To  the  twilight  of  the  grassy  lakes, 

To  the  glory  of  the  Yukon  hills. 


WITH  THE  MALLARD  DRAKE  113 

To  rest  where  the  old  gray  sea  towers  shake; 

'Mong  tangled  moss  and  grassy  knots 
To  seek  the  rest  of  the  kittiwake 

And  the  pointed  eggs  with  blood-red  spots. 
O  Kittiwake  of  the  snow-white  crown, 

Of  the  coral  feet  and  vermillion  eyed, 
Of  the  tender  croon  and  wings  of  down, 
I  would  fly  with  you  this  burning  day 
To  the  wind-swept  peaks  away,  away, 

And  hide  where  you  and  the  tempest  hide. 

Oh,  for  a  day  In  the  waltzing  wind, 

With  the  mallard  in  his  swift  strong  flight! 
To  leave  the  blue  frost-smoke  behind, 

And  poise  in  the  Yukon's  opal  light, 
To  know  the  rush  of  the  upper  airs, 

The  curve  of  the  wing-tip  thrilling  through 
The  swelling  soul  of  him  who  dares! 

O    beautiful   bird,  bronze    night    on    thy 

breast, 
A  thousand  golden  Junes  in  thy  crest, 
And  across  thy  wing  heaven's  bar  of  blue. 

Anon 


SONG   OF  THE   OPEN   CAMP 

Number  One 

'Tis  pleasant,  after  a  weary  tramp, 
To  meet  at  night  in  the  open  camp, 
To  feel  the  glow  of  the  genial  blaze. 
That  conquers  gloom  by  its  welcome  rays. 
We  hear  of  many  a  trophy  won, 
By  flood  and  field  with  its  rod  and  gun; 
The  welkin  rings  with  song  and  jest. 
Till  sleep  steals  on  and  enforces  rest. 

The  tie  of  friendship  is  always  dear, 

Let  those  it  blesses  be  far  or  near, 

A  gem  on  shore  or  a  pearl  at  sea, 

A  prize  of  age  or  of  youthful  glee, — 

It  gives  content  when  all  else  hath  flown, 

Their  names  it  hallows  when  friends  have  gone, 

Not  more  on  earth  doth  its  charm  inspire 

Than  when  invoked  by  the  camp  and  fire. 

But  few  enjoyments  we  mortals  know 
With  strange  mosaic  of  weal  and  woe; 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  CAMP  115 

The  blame  for  which  may  be  ours  or  not 
As  each  has  used  or  abused  his  lot, 
But  zest  is  found  that  we  ne'er  forget — 
A  beam  of  hope  ere  the  sun  has  set, — 
It  cheers  by  hill  and  by  mountain  spire, 
In  open  camp  with  social  fire. 

Edward  Octavius  Flagg 


SONG  OF  THE   OPEN   CAMP 
Nuinber  Two 

Let  jocund  mirth  beguile  with  song, 

The  camp-fire  bums  to-night; 
To  us  the  sources  true  belong 

Whence  flows  a  pure  delight. 
That  summer's  dream  will  soon  be  o'er 

Is  traced  on  flower  and  leaf. 
Use  well  the  moments  yet  in  store 

Of  earth's  enjoyments  brief. 

Let  Fancy  weave  to-morrow's  sport 

Of  deer  hunt,  rod  and  reel, 
Of  baseball  and  the  tennis-court. 

Where  wildwood  odors  steal; 
But  slighting  not  the  guide  boat's  course, 

Through  inlet,  lake,  and  creek, 
To  where  the  rapid's  noise  and  force 

Dispute  the  point  we  seek. 

Yet  wisdom's  voice  with  loud  demand 
Uncertain  schemes  would  crush. 

It  much  prefers  the  "bird  in  hand, 
To  two  within  the  busli. " 


SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  CAMP  117 

So  ere  the  day,  may  each  his  part 
Perform  in  blithesome  mood,  « 

Reproving  every  churlish  heart 
That  scorns  a  present  good. 

Edward  Octavius  Flagg 

9 


FOREST  vSOLITUDE 

A  cabin  in  a  forest  wilderness, 

Where  wood-fire  smoke  trails  blue  beyond  the  hills, 

And  mingles  with  the  twilight  of  the  pines; 

A  gun;  a  rod;  the  song  of  birds  and  bees, 

And  flame  and  fragrance  of  sweet  woodland  flowers ; 

A  mountain  stream;  the  sunlight's  gleam  of  gold, 

And  all  the  wildwood  things  you  used  to  love; 

A  rifle's  echo,  from  the  distant  hills, 

The  whisper  of  the  night  wind's  lullaby; 

A  cricket's  even-song;  a  night-bird's  call, 

And  Solitude,  and  memories  of  you. 

Jessie  Davies  Willdy 


LITTLE   LAC  GRENIER 

(Gren-yay) 

Leetle  Lac  Grenier,  she's  all  alone, 

Right  on  de  mountain-top, 

But  cloud  sweepin'  by,  will  fin'  tarn  to  stop 

No  matter  how  quickly  he  want  to  go, 

So  he'll  kiss  leetle  Grenier  down  below. 

Leetle  Lac  Grenier,  she's  all  alone, 

Up  on  de  mountain  high, 

But  she  never  feel  lonesome,  'cos  for  w'y? 

So  soon  as  de  winter  was  gone  away 

De  bird  come  an'  sing  to  her  ev'ry  day. 

Leetle  Lac  Grenier,  she's  all  alone. 

Back  on  de  mountain  dere. 

But  de  pine-trees  an'  spruce  stan'  ev'rywhere 

Along  by  de  shore,  an'  mak'  her  warm. 

For  dey  kip  off  de  win'  an'  de  winter  storm! 

Leetle  Lac  Grenier,  she's  all  alone, 

No  broder,  no  sister  near. 

But  de  swallow  will  fly,  an'  de  beeg  moose  deer 

An'  caribou  too,  will  go  long  way 

To  drink  de  sweet  water  of  Lac  Grenier. 


120  LITTLE  LAC  GRENIER 

Lcetlc  Lac  Grenier,  I  see  you  now, 

Onder  de  roof  of  Spring. 

Ma  canoe's  afloat,  an'  de  robin  sing. 

De  lily's  beginnin'  her  Summer  dress, 

An'  trout's  wakin'  up  from  hces  long,  long  res*. 

Leetle  Lac  Grenier,  I'm  happy  now. 
Out  on  de  ole  canoe, 
For  I'm  all  alone,  ina  chkre,  wit'  you, 
An'  if  only  a  nice  light  rod  I  had 
I'd  try  dat  fish  near  de  lily  pad! 

Leetle  Lac  Grenier,  O!  let  me  go, 

Don't  spik  no  more, 

For  your  voice  is  strong  lak  de  rapid's  roar, 

An'  you  know  you'se'f  I'm  too  far  away. 

For  visit  you  now — Leetle  Lac  Grenier! 

William  Henry  Drummond 


BIRCH  AND   PADDLE 

Friend,  those  delights  of  ours 
Under  the  sun  and  showers, — 

All  through  the  noonday  blue 
Sliding  our  light  canoe, 

Or  floating,  hushed,  at  eve. 
Where  the  dim  pine-tops  grieve! 

What  tonic  days  were  they 

Where  shy  streams  dart  and  play, — 

Where  rivers  brown  and  strong 
As  caribou  bound  along. 

Break  into  angry  parle 
Where  wildcat  rapids  snarl, 

Subside,  and  like  a  snake 
Wind  to  the  quiet  lake! 

We've  paddled  furtively, 

Where  giant  boughs  hide  the  sky, — 


122  BIRCH  AND  PADDLE 

Have  stolen,  and  held  our  breath, 
Thro'  coverts  still  as  death, — 

Have  left  with  wing  unstirred 
The  brooding  phcebe-bird, 

And  hardly  caused  a  care 
In  the  water-spider's  lair. 

For  love  of  his  clear  pipe 
We've  flushed  the  zigzag  snipe, — 

Have  chased  in  wilful  mood 

The  wood-duck's  flapping  brood, — 

Have  spied  the  antlered  moose 
Cropping  the  young  green  spruce, 

And  watched  him  till  betrayed 
By  the  kingfisher's  sharp  tirade. 

Quitting  the  bodeful  shades 
We've  run  thro'  sunnier  glades, 

•  And  dropping  craft  and  heed 
Have  bid  our  paddles  speed. 

Where  the  mad  rapids  chafe 
We've  shouted,  steering  safe, — 

With  sinew  tense,  nerve  keen, 
Shot  thro'  the  roar,  and  seen, 


BIRCH  AND  PADDLE  123 

With  spirit  wild  as  theirs, 

The  white  waves  leap  like  hares. 

And  then,  with  souls  grown  clear 
In  that  sweet  atmosphere. 

With  influences  serene 

Our  blood  and  brain  washed  clean, 

We've  idled  down  the  breast 
Of  broadening  tides  at  rest. 

And  marked  the  winds,  the  birds, 
The  bees,  the  far-off  herds. 

Into  a  drowsy  tune 
Transmute  the  afternoon. 

So,  Friend,  with  ears  and  eyes 
Which  shy  divinities 

Have  opened  with  their  kiss, 
We  need  no  balm  but  this, — 

A  little  space  for  dreams 
On  care-unsullied  streams, — 

'Mid  task  and  toil,  a  space 
To  dream  on  Nature's  face! 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


COME  TO  THE   WOODS 

When  the  hour  of  meeting's  nigh 
And  thy  heart  is  beating  high, 

Come  to  the  woods,  the  woods,  lad. 
And  if  the  boughs  are  ringing, 
With  all  their  minstrels  singing, 

Do  thou,  too,  rejoice, 

And  utter  a  voice 
More  glad. 

Or  if  on  Winter's  tide 

Floats  Autumn's  wither'd  pride, 

Come  to  the  woods,  the  woods,  lad. 
Why  should  the  bard  be  dimib? 
'Tis  meet  that  thou  shouldst  come 
Their  Spring  gifts  to  repay 
And  make  the  pale  day 
Less  sad. 

G.  J.  Cornish 


MY  HEART'S   DESIRE 

My  heart's  desire  is  nothing  great: 
Say  just  a  little  eight-by-eight 
Log  cabin  in  the  Northern  woods 
Where  I  can  wallow  in  my  moods 
And  wade  around  in  solitudes 

And  rubber  boots; 
Free  from  excitement,  noise  and  dudes. 

Yes,  that  just  suits! 

My  heart's  desire  is  nothing  much: 
A  little  venison,  and  such 
Sweet  trout  as  markets  ne'er  afford; 
A  little  time  to  praise  the  Lord 
My  own  peculiar  way,  for  these 
Simplicities  that  ever  please 

And  never  pall 
The  mind,  as  in  the  birchen  trees 

The  thrushes  call. 

My  heart's  desire  is  nothing  large: 
The  open  sky,  the  river-marge; 


126  MY  HEART'S   DESIRE 

The  soundless  woods,  the  empty  shore; 
Pine-needles  on  the  parlor  floor, 
And  hazy  lazy  hours  of  life 

Just  breathing  air; 
— One  couldn't  ask  much  less, — No  strife, 

Peace  everywhere. 

My  heart's  desire?    The  waterfalls; 
The  rushes  where  the  grackle  calls; 
The  joy  of  negative  delights; 
The  melody  of  summer  nights; 
My  wife's  mild  word 

Of  practical  suggestion — "Say, 
You  haven't  washed  your  face  to-day" 

But  faintly  heard. 

My  heart's  desire?    Well,  come  to  think, 
It's  all  too  near  Elysium's  brink 

For  humankind. 
One's  heart,  you  know,  is  apt  to  change 
Most  an^'where  one  can  arrange 

His  peace  of  mind. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 


A  SUMMER  SONG 

In  the  hush  of  mom  in  the  fields  of  com 

I  hear  the  Bob-white  calling; 
At  the  close  of  day  o'er  the  fields  away 
Again  its  cadence  falling. 
Bob  White!     Bob  White! 

This  is  his  roundelay; 
Bob  White!    Bob  White! 
He's  singing  all  the  day. 

Where  the  sunflowers  bold  in  green  and  gold 

Are  growing,  away  from  the  city, 
By  the  tangled  hedge,  in  the  blue-stem  sedge. 
He  ever  singeth  his  ditty: 
Bob  White!    Bob  White! 

Slimmer' s  the  time  to  sing; 
Bob  White!    Bob  White! 
List  to  its  mellow  ring. 

In  the  prairie  grass  as  I  by  him  pass 
His  motion  and  vesper  together, 

He  sings  away  through  the  summer  day 
This  litany  for  all  weather: 


128  A  SUMMER   SONG 

Bob  White!    Bob  White! 

Molest  me  not,  I  pray; 
Bob  White!    Bob  White! 

This  is  his  roundelay. 

In  the  hush  of  mom  in  the  fields  of  com, 

You  hear  him  far  away  calling, 
There's  a  whir  of  wings,  then  again  he  sings. 
Nearer  its  cadence  falling: 
Bob  White!     Bob  White! 

My  nestlings  are  on  the  wing; 
Bob  White!     Bob  White! 
Summer's  the  time  to  sing. 

William  Felter 


LITTLE   BATEESE 

You  bad  leetle  boy,  not  moche  you  care 
How  busy  you're  kipin'  your  poor  graxi'pere 
Trying  to  stop  you  ev'ry  day 
Chasing  de  hen  aroun'  de  hay — 
W'y  don't  you  geev'  dem  a  chance  to  lay? 
Leetle  Bateese! 

Off  on  de  fiel'  you  foller  de  plough, 
Den  w'en  you're  tire'  you  scare  de  cow 
Sickin'  de  dog  till  dey  jomp  de  wall 
So  de  milk  ain't  good  for  not'ing  at  all — 
An'  you're  only  five  an'  a  half  dis  fall, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

Too  sleepy  for  sayin'  de  prayer  to-night? 

Never  min',  I  s'pose  it'll  be  all  right 
Say  dem  to-morrow — ah!  dere  he  go! 
Fas'  asleep  in  a  minute  or  so — 
And  he'll  stay  lak  dat  till  de  rooster  crow, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

Den  wakes  us  up  right  away  toute  suite, 
Lookin'  for  somet'ing  more  to  eat, 


130  LITTLE   BATEESE 

Makin'  me  t'ink  of  dcm  long-leg  crane — 
Soon  as  dey  swaller,  dey  start  again. 
I  wonder  your  stomach  don't  get  no  pain, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

But  see  heem  now  lyin'  dcre  in  bed, 
Look  at  de  arm  ondcmeat'  hees  head; 
If  he  grow  lak  dat  till  he's  twenty  year 
I  bet  he'll  be  stronger  dan  Louis  Cyr 
An'  beat  all  de  voyageurs  leevin'  here, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

Jus'  feel  de  muscle  along  hees  back. 

Won't  geev'  heem  moche  bodder  for  carry  pack 
On  de  long  portage,  any  size  canoe, 
Dere's  not  many  t'ing  dat  boy  won't  do. 
For  he's  got  double-joint  on  hees  body  too, 
Leetle  Bateese! 

But  leetle  Bateese!  please  don't  forget 
We  rader  you're  stayin'  de  small  boy  yet, 
So  chase  de  chicken  an'  mak'  dem  scare, 
An'  do  w'at  you  lak  wit'  your  old  granpere, 
For  w'en  you're  beeg  feller  he  won't  be  dere — 
Leetle  Bateese! 
William  Henry  Drummond 


THE  DEER-TRAPPER 

At  sight  of  him  the  birds  berate; 
The  blackbird  points  him  to  her  mate, 
The  bluejay  screams  a  scathing  v/ord, 
Even  the  thrush  is  anger-stirred; — 
Stealthy  his  step  by  wood-path  dim, 
Yet  they  know  and  jeer  at  him. 

His  coming  makes  the  fields  less  gay; 
The  men  who  work  there  look  away, 
No  welcome,  only  a  half-hid  sneer. 
For  Paul  who  loafs — and  traps  the  deer! 

When  night-mist  softens  clearings  rough, 
And  men  who  work  have  worked  enough, 
Around  the  shanty  doors  you  hear 
Laughing  girls  make  music  clear; 
Jest  answers  jest,  heart's  hear  to  heart, — 
But  Paul  Fineffe  still  keeps  apart! 

Sleepin'  he  dreams,  and  seems  to  hide 
Close  by  a  spruce-tree's  shadowy  side; 
A  slender  doe  through  the  mosses  stepped, 
Under  her  foot  a  deer-trap  leapt 


132  THE   DEER-TRAPPER 

And  fastened  on  her,  biting  deep, 
Biting  deeper  at  each  wild  leap! 
She  is  no  stolid,  brutish  bear 
To  crouch  and  wait  the  trapper  there; 
Frantic  she  plunges,  crazed  with  fright, 
Bruised  and  broken,  a  piteous  sight! — 
Paul  sees  and  shudders  and  would  away. 
But  something  holds  him — he  too  must  stay! 

Such  day-time  joy,  such  night-time  cheer. 
For  Paul  Fineffe  who  traps  the  deer! 

Francis  Sterne  Palmer 


MEEKO 

(The  Squirrel) 

Dat  leetle  Meeko 
Hees  no  car' 
Hees  poke  hees  nose  mos'  aneewhere, 
Hees  watch  me  w'en  I  mak'  dat  cook, 
Hees  sneak  up  w'en  I  no  mak'  look, 
Hees  grab  dat  feesh  an'  run  away. 
I  chuck  dat  steeick  at  heem  an'  say, 
"You  beeg-tail  robbarr  wat  you  do, 
I  no  deed  cook  dat  sup  for  you." 
An'  den  hees  curse,  sacre,  hees  curse, 
I  no  can  mak'  heem  curse  dat's  worse, 
Hees  call  me  all  dose  t'ings  befor' 
An'  den  hees  call  me  leetle  mor'. 
I  say,  "You  crazee  red  head-fool 
I  teach  you  somet'g  smart  like  school, 
You  breeng  dat  feesh  an'  breeng  dat  bread 
Begosh,  I  mak'  you  pretty  dead." 
An'  den  hees  laff  an'  climb  dat  tree 
An'  I  laff  too  de  same  like  he. 

Dat  leetle  Meeko 

Come  at  night 
An'  sect  heem  by  dat  firelight, 

10 


134  MEEKO 

Hees  scratch  hees  head  an'  look  at  me 

An'  say,  "You  have  no  famelee? 

Ah,  dat  ees  sad. "     An'  den  hees  sigh, 

"You  have  heem  yet,  dey  come  bimeby. " 

I  say,  "My  leetle  red-head  frcn' 

You  no  can  learn  de  ways  of  men, 

I  have  oite  leetle  sweet  chdrie 

Shees  now  go  home  acros'  dat  sea, 

Shees  love,  anudder  man  een  France 

Hees  mak'  her  heart  much  happy  dance. 

Ah,  dat  was  long,  long  moons  ago 

De  wintarrs  come  weeth  manee  snow, 

I  walk  alone  de  trail  of  life 

An'  no  have  cheeldren,  no  have  wife. 

An'  dat  ees  why  I  no  keeill  you 

Shees  always  say  shees  love  you  too." 

An'  den  de  fire  hees  go  black 

I  mak'  de  peelow  of  dat  pack 

An'  say,  "Meeko,  de  dark  come  deep. 

We  mus'  go  mak'  heem  leetle  sleep, 

Good  night,  mon  fr^re,  an'  don'  you  stir 

God  keep  you  saf'  an'  her,  an'  her." 

Gordon  Johnstone 


ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

Out  of  the  land  of  the  ancient  bards 

A  wandering  minstrel  strayed; 
Courage  and  hope  were  the  song  he  sang, 

And  faith  was  the  string  he  played. 
"I  care  not  what  the  end,"  he  cried, 

"So  the  road  be  fair  and  free; 
For  the  greater  gift  of  life  is  his 

Who  travels  cheerily!" 

Earth  was  his  house  and  heaven  his  roof; 

Sun,  moon  and  stars  his  light; 
Voices  of  wind  and  wood  and  wave 

His  music  day  and  night. 
Over  his  clouds  the  lark  sang  still; 

And  when  the  light  was  gone. 
Thrilling  the  dark  of  crouching  doom. 

His  nightingale  sang  on. 

So  let  us  be,  as  the  minstrel  sang. 

Of  faith,  and  hope,  and  love, 
Though  the  snarling  waters  scowl  beneath. 

And  thunder  rolls  above. 


(36  ROBERT  LOUIS  STEVENSON 

After  the  rain,  the  night  of  stars; 

After  the  night,  the  dawn; 
And  that  day  goes  down  to  a  splendid  death, 

Which  lights  another's  mom! 

Stephen  Chalmers 


SLEEPING  OUT:  FULL  MOON 

They  sleep  within  .  .  . 
I  cower  to  the  earth,  I  waking,  I  only. 
High   and    cold    thou    dreamest,    O    queen,    high- 
dreaming  and  lonely 
We  have  slept  too  long,  who  can  hardly  win 
The  white  one  flame,   and  the  night-long  crying; 
The  viewless  passers;  the  world's  low  sighing 
With  desire,  with  yearning, 
To  the  fire  unbuming. 
To  the  heatless  fire,  to  the  flameless  ecstasy!  .  .  . 

Helpless  I  lie. 

And  around  me  the  feet  of  the  watchers  tread. 

There  is  a  rumor  and  a  radiance  of  wings  above  my 

head. 
An  intolerable  radiance  of  wings.  .  .  . 

All  the  earth  grows  fire. 

White  lips  of  desire 

Brushing  cool  on  the  forehead,  croon  slumbrous 

things. 
Earth  fades;  and  the  air  is  thrilled  with  ways, 


138  SLEEPING  OUT:    FULL  MOON 

Dewy  paths  full  of  comfort.     And  radiant  bands, 

The  gracious  presence  of  friendly  hands, 

Help  the  blind  one,  the  glad  one,  who  stumbles 

and  strays, 
Stretching  wavering  hands,   up,   up,   through  the 

praise 
Of  a  myriad  silver  trumpets,  through  cries, 
Of  all  glory,  to  all  gladness,  to  the  infinite  height. 
To  the  gracious,  the  unmoving,  the  mother  eyes, 
And  the  laughter  and  the  lips  of  light. 

Rupert  Brooke 


DAT  BEAVARR 

Dat  beavarr  ees  one  leetle  man, 
He  work  hees  tail,  hees  teeth,  hees  han', 
He  fin'  dat  stream  an'  den  de  say, 
"Madam'  la  Beavarr,  now  we  stay. 
We  build  one  fin'  strong  dam  dees  year, 
We  break  dat  tree  an'  breeng  heem  here, 
We  mak'  comoosie  een  dat  stream 
An'  den  long  wintarr  mon'  we  dream; 
De  green  spruce  barrk  ees  sweet  like  grouse 
We  put  heem  een  dat  leetle  house 
An'  no  car'  den  come  snow,  come  freeze, 
We  do  jes'  like  we  much  dam'  please, 
Madam'  la  Beavarr." 

Dat  beavarr  no  car'  leetle  snap 

Wen  beeg  bear  come  an'  yap  an'  yap; 

He  know  dat  bear  no  like  to  steek 

Hees  leetle  fingarr  een  dat  creek; 

De  pimia  cry  an'  cry  hees  fight, 

De  white  wolf  howl  like  ghost  all  night, 

De  horn'  owl  hunt  an'  hunt  hees  sup 

An'  no  can  sleep  'teel  sim  come  up; 


140  DAT  BEAVARR 

Dc  lynx  hecs  screech  like  hell  go  loose, 
Dat  bcavarr  smile  een  warm  comoose 
An'  speak  so  sof  like  girl  een  school, 
"Dose  leetle  children  one  dam'  fool, 
Madam'  la  Beavarr. " 

Dat  beavarr  no  go  out  een  day 
He  hide  heemsel'  like  moon  away, 
Den  preety  queek  he  breeng  one,  two, 
T'ree,  four,  fiv',  seex  fin'  beavarr,  too. 
He  learn  heem  how  to  go  dat  sweem. 
He  mak'  heem  keek  de  same  like  heem. 
He  tell  heem  no  go  verree  farr 
'Teel  night  he  mak'  heem  leetle  starr. 
He  show  heem  where  he  fin'  dose  barrk 
Dat  mak'  sweet  dinnarr  een  de  darrk, 
He  rub  hees  nose  an'  say,  "You  see, 
Dat's  one  fin'  beeg  dam  famelee. 
Madam'  la  Beavarr." 

Gordon  Johnstone 


THE  ROMANCE  TRAIL 

There  are  camp-fires  unkindled  and  songs  unsung, 

And  the  un traveled  miles  of  the  trail. 
There  are  unbroken  dreams  'neath  the  whispering 
trees, 

Till  the  stars  of  the  morning  grow  pale. 
Why  are  you  doubtful — why  tarry  so  long, 

When  the  god  of  the  wanderlust  calls? 
The  gypsy-road  trails  through  the  perfume  of  dusk, 

When  the  purple  of  night  softly  falls. 

The  night-road  is  freighted  with  romance  and  bliss, 

From  the  castles  of  Romany-land. 
Their  legends  live  on  though  their  grandeur  is  gone, 

Like  the  castles  they  built  on  the  sands. 
A  camp-fire  awaits  when  the  day's  march  is  o'er, 

And  a  smoke  by  the  bright,  leaping  flame. 
Let  the  faint-hearts  return  to  their  pillows  of  down. 

We'll  be  strong  to  the  end  of  the  game. 

Chart  Pitt 


CANOE  SONG  OF  THE  MILICETES 

''Whu-t-hawgn! 

Mochsqua-look! 
Piskit  pokut  mitatakso 
Piska-taW 

Blade  of  maple!    Boat  of  bark! 

Hear  the  voice  that  calls  through  the  dark ! 

Blade  of  maple!    E'en  the  leaves 

Of  the  overhanging  trees 

Strive  with  quivering  emulation, 

Strive  with  sibilant  vibration 
To  repeat  the  voice  that  calls 
Through  the  dark. 

Boat  of  bark!    The  river's  breast 
Softly  by  thy  light  form  pressed, 
Tells  thee — in  the  waves  that  leap 
Against  thy  prow,  then  gently  creep 
Along  thy  sides  into  the  deep 
To  sleep — 

How  sweet  the  voice  that  calls 
Through  the  dark. 


CANOE  SONG  OF  THE  MILICETES       143 

Voice  that  calls!    Thou  hast  made 
Arms  of  steel  dip  deep  the  blade. 

Where  the  waves  leapt,  there  the  spray  is; 

Where  they  gently  crept,  the  foam  is; 

Where  they  slept,  I'm  piling  billows, 

Heap  on  heap. 

Across  the  deep. 

Seeking  out  the  voice  that  calls 
Through  the  dark. 

Blade  of  maple !    Thou  hast  heard ; 

Boat  of  bark!    Thou,  too,  art  stirred. 
O'er  the  waters  we  are  leaping, 
Now  'neath  tangled  branches  sweeping 
To  the  nook  where  love  is  keeping 
Never-sleeping  tryst  for  me. 
Under  birch  and  maple  tree. 
Sweet ! 
We  knew  the  voice  was  calling 

Through  the  dark. 

Translated  by  J.  E.  March 


THE   RIDERS  OF  THE   PLAINS 
(The  North-western  Mounted  PoHce) 

Who  is  it  lacks  the  knowledge?    Who  are  the  curs 

that  dare 
To  whine  and  sneer  that  they  do  not  fear  the  whelps 

in  the  Lion's  lair? 
But  we  of  the  North  will  answer,  while  life  in  the 

North  remains, 
Let  the  curs  beware  lest  the  whelps  they  dare  are 

the  Riders  of  the  Plains; 
For  these  are  the  kind  whose  muscle  makes  the 

power  of  the  Lion's  jaw, 
And  they  keep  the  peace  of  our  people  and  the 

honoiu*  of  British  law. 

A  woman  has  painted  a  picture, — 'tis  a  neat  little 

bit  of  art 
The  critics  aver,  and  it  roused  up  for  her  the  love  of 

the  big  British  heart. 
'Tis  a  sketch  of  an  EngHsh  bulldog   that  tigers 

would  scarce  attack; 
And  round  and  about  and  beneath  him  is  painted 

the  Union  Jack, 


THE  RIDERS  OF  THE  PLAINS  145 

With  its  blaze  of  colour  and  courage,  its  daring  in 

every  fold, 
And  underneath  is  the  title,  "What  we  have  we'll 

hold." 
'Tis  a  picture  plain  as  a  mirror,  but  the  reflex  it 

contains 
Is  the  counterpart  of  the  life  and  heart  of  the  Riders 

of  the  Plains; 
For  like  to  that  flag  and  that  motto,  and  the  power 

of  that  bulldog's  jaw, 
They  keep  the  peace  of  our  people  and  the  honour  of 

British  law. 

These  are  the  fearless  fighters,  whose  life  in  the  open 

lies. 
Who  never  fail  on  the  prairie  trail  'neath  the  Terri- 
torial skies. 
Who  have  laughed  in  the  face  of  the  bullets  and  the 

edge  of  the  rebels'  steel, 
Who  have  set  their  ban  on  the  lawless  man  with  his 

crime  beneath  their  heel; 
These  are  the  men  who  battle  the  blizzards,  the  sun, 

the  rains. 
These  are  the  famed  that  the  North  has  named, 

"The  Riders  of  the  Plains," 
And  theirs  is  the  might  and  the  meaning  and  the 

strength  of  the  bulldog's  jaw. 
While  they  keep  the  peace  of  the  people  and  the 

honour  of  British  law. 


146  THE   RIDERS  OF  THE   PLAINS 

These  are  the  men  of  action,  who  need  not  the  world's 

renown, 
For  their  valour  is  known  to  England's  throne  as  a 

gem  in  the  British  crown; 
These  are  the  men  who  face  the  front,  with  courage 

the  world  may  scan, 
The  men  who  are  feared  by  the  felon,  but  are  loved 

by  the  honest  man; 
These  are  the  marrow,  the  pith,  the  cream,  the  best 

that  the  blood  contains, 
Who  have  cast  their  days  in  the  valiant  ways  of  the 

Riders  of  the  Plains; 
And  theirs  is  the  kind  whose  muscle  makes  the  power 

of  old  England's  jaw, 
And  they  keep  the  peace  of  her  people  and  the 

honour  of  British  law. 

Then  down  with  the  cur  that  questions, — let  him 

slink  to  his  craven  den. 
For  he  daren't  deny  our  hot  reply  as  to  who  are  our 

mounted  men. 
He  shall  honour  them  east  and  westward,  he  shall 

honour  them  south  and  north. 
He  shall  bare  his  head  to  that  coat  of  red  wherever 

that  red  rides  forth. 
'Tis  well  that  he  knows  the  fibre  that  the  great 

North-West  contains. 
The  North- West  pride  in  her  men  that  ride  on  the 

Territorial  plains, — 


THE  RIDERS  OF  THE  PLAINS  147 

For  such  as  these  are  the  muscles  and  the  teeth  in 

the  Lion's  jaw, 
And  they  keep  the  peace  of  our  people*  and  the 

honour  of  British  law. 

E.  Pauline  Johnson 


FORTY-THREE   YEARS 

Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  ^n, 
Rain  and  hail  and  the  sleet  and  sun; 
Winds  that  blew  from  the  Northland  harsh 
Wrinkling  the  face  of  the  dreaming  marsh, 
Reflex  warm  of  the  sun's  bright  shields 
Shining  down  on  the  stubble-fields, 
Brakes  where  the  round-eyed  woodcock  lay 
Dimly  veiled  from  the  light  of  day: 
Seasons  beckon  me,  one  by  one. 
Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun. 

Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun, 
Warp  and  woof  by  the  woodland  spun; 
Lakes  where  the  bluebills  curve  and  wheel 
Arrowy  flight  of  the  green-wing  teal, 
Pasture  lands  where  the  jack-snipe  hide. 
Grassy  stretch  of  the  prairies  wide, 
Blackberr}"  \'ines  by  the  orchard  swale, 
Bursting  rise  of  the  buzzing  quail: 
Seasons  vanishing,  one  by  one, 
Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun. 


FORTY-THREE  YEARS  149 

Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun, 
Flush  of  dawn  or  the  dayhght  done; 
Cane-brake  chase  of  the  lumbering  bear 
Roused  from  the  swamp  to  leave  his  lair, 
Knolls  where  the  turkeys  scratched  and  fed, 
Gobbling  loud  as  the  east  grew  red. 
Honking  files  of  the  south-bound  geese 
Shrouded  soft  in  the  cloud's  gray  fleece: 
Seasons  beckon  me,  one  by  one, 
Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun. 

Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun, 
Peaks  and  cliffs  in  the  questing  won; 
Purple  vaults  that  the  distance  blurs. 
Blue  grouse  under  the  Douglas  firs. 
Tracks  that  carve  in  the  clearing  sere 
Clean-cut  sign  of  the  black-tail  deer, 
Mallards  packed  like  the  hiving  bees 
Climbing  high  o'er  the  sundown  seas: 
Seasons  gathering  one  by  one, 
Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun. 

Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun — 

Sands  of  time  through  the  hour-glass  run; 

Hands  that  sUpped  from  a  hunter's  grasp. 

Virile  grips  I  no  longer  clasp, 

Into  the  far-gone  silence  sped 

Men  I  knew  who  are  now  long  dead, 

II 


I50  FORTY-THREE  YEARS 

Comrades  close  of  the  camp  and  "blind  " 
I,  at  the  last,  am  left  behind, 
Counting  the  seasons,  one  by  one; 
Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun. 

Ernest  McGaffney 


THE  PORTAGE  TRAIL 

It's  marked  by  a  blaze  grown  brown  as  the  trunk 
Of  a  pine  that  stands  by  the  shore; 

It's  told  by  a  path  whose  level's  sunk 
'Neath  feet  that  have  trod  it  before. 

It  twists  through  a  swamp  and  over  a  hill 

To  an  unknown  river  beyond; 
It  winds  through  a  forest  wond'rous  still 

To  end  at  a  pine-sheltered  pond. 

Known  by  the  ashes  of  tea-brewing  iSres 
Of  those  who  have  gone  in  the  past, 

It  beckons  always  to  our  desires, 
And  the  lure  of  it  holds  us  fast. 

For  many  have  gone  since  the  way  was  cut 
To  claim  this  dark  land  as  their  own — 

Nitchie  and  Frenchman  and  bolder  Scot, 
And  most  of  them  went  alone. 

They  conquered  wind  and  they  conquered  cold 
As  they  pressed  on  into  the  wild; 

Their  bodies  cast  in  a  hero's  mold, 
But  their  hearts  like  that  of  a  child. 


152  THE  PORTAGE  TRAIL 

And  now  as  we  tread  in  the  paths  they  made 
We  picture  ourselves  in  their  stead; 

Toiling  through  muskeg  and  up  the  grade 
With  the  unknown  just  ahead. 

For  the  way  means  toil,  but  toil  we  forget 
When  the  packs  are  set  down  at  last; 

Its  way  means  joy,  and  it  lingers  yet — 
Come  down  from  the  primitive  past. 

And  its  call  is  the  call  of  forests  dim, 
Its  spell  is  the  spell  of  the  wild; 

Its  charm  is  that  of  a  battle-field  grim 
With  the  wilderness  undefiled. 

Robert  E.  Pinkerton 


THE  DOUBLE  BARREL 

When  round  the  Sportsman's  festive  board 

The  sparkling  btimper  passes, 
With  joyous  toasts  each  flask  is  stored, 

"The  Queen!"  and  ''All  good  Masses!" 
The  Turf,  the  Stubble,  Fox,  or  Stag, 
The  Harriers,  or  some  winning  Nag, 

"The  Long  Dogs"  or  the  Race! 
Some  drink  a  fav'rite  Pointer,  some 

The  "Patrons  of  the  Chase." 
Next  Shooting,  Coursing,  Angling,  come 

The  flowing  bowl  to  grace; 
But  ever,  while  we  live, 
The  "Barrel!"  let  us  give, 

With  three  times  three,  huzza! 

For  we  hoop  the  Barrel  and  fill  the  Barrel, 
And  tap  the  Barrel  and  swill  the  Barrel, 
We  load  the  Barrel  and  ^mw^  the  Barrel, 
Present  the  Barrel  and  ^r^  the  Barrel, 
And  shoulder  the  Sarr^Z  and  6o«/^  the  Barrel, 
And  dnwfe  and  J^r^  away! 


IS4  THE  DOUBLE   BARREL 

For  table  sports  there's  Meux's  Entire, 

And  Barclay  mixed  with  Perkins, 
And  Hanb'ry's  Barrels  full  of  fire, 

While  Truemen  warms  their  workings. 
When  shooting  wagers  Sportsmen  lay 
An  Egg  or  Manton  they  display, 

To  bring  the  coveys  down. 
And  bag  some  dozen  brace  a-day, 

To  feed  their  friends  in  Town. 
Percussion  cap  and  ramrod  gay, 

And  Barrel  nicely  brown; 
Then  ever  while  you  live. 
The  Barrel  let  us  give, 

With  three  times  three,  huzza! 
For  we  hoop,  &c. 

The  Sporting  Farmer's  Harvest  Night 

The  Barrel's  value  prices; 
And  Old  October  makes  more  bright 

Fairs,  Races,  or  Assizes, 
The  soldier,  who  at  Waterloo 
Or  Egypt  reap'd  the  harvest  due, 

Where  British  arms  prevail. 
The  Barrel  gaily  broach'd,  when  full 

His  spirits  to  regale; 
And  glass  or  trigger,  took  a  pull 

At  powder  or  of  ale, 


THE  DOUBLE  BARREL  155 

Then  ever  while  we  live, 
The  Barrel  let  us  give, 
With  three  times  three,  huzza! 
For  we  hoop,  &c. 

And  many  good-natured  Johnny  Bull, 

His  friends  while  entertaining, 
Fill  all  their  jolly  Barrels  full. 

And  yet  have  store  remaining; 
And  Cellar,  Orchard,  House  and  Field, 
Old  English  cheer  superior  yield. 

And  plenty  be  his  lot! 
Ne'er  may  he  want  for  gold  or  game 

Or  be  by  friends  forgot: 
And  all  he  marks  with  honest  aim 

Turn  out  a  lucky  shot. 
And  let  us  while  we  live, 
The  Barrel  boldly  give. 

With  three  times  three,  huzza! 
For  we  hoop,  &c. 

Thomas  Diedin 


NIGHT  IN  THE   WILDERNESS 

The  good  fire-ranger  is  our  friend   to-night; 
We  sit  before  his  tent,  and  watch  his  fire 
Send  up  its  fount  of  saiHng  sparks  that  Hght 
The  ruddy  pine-stems.     Hands  that  never  tire 
Our  friend's  are,  as  he  spreads  his  frugal  store. 
And  cooks  his  bouillon  with  a  hunter's  pride, 
Till,  warm  with  woodland  fare  and  forest  lore, 
We  sink  at  last  to  sleep.     On  every  side 
A  grim  mysterious  presence,  vast  and  old, 
The  forest  stretches  leagues  on  leagues  away. 
With  lonely  rivers  running  dark  and  cold. 
And  many  a  gloomy  lake  and  haunted  bay. 
The  stars  above  the  pines  are  sharp  and  still. 
The  wind  scarce  moves.     An  owl  hoots  from  the 
hill. 

Archibald  Lampman 


TO  A  WOOD  PATH 

Who  found  you  first, 

Wild  wood  thing, 
Womanly,  wa5nvard, 

Wandering? 

In  remote  ages 

Scored  by  the  million 
Once  there  slept  here 

A  winged  reptilian, 
The  print  of  his  body 

Inscribed  for  your  reason, 
As  he  dreamed  in  his  coilings 

A  cycle  or  season. 

Up  sprang  the  forest 

Through  ages  succeeding; 
Stalked  the  wolves  one  by  one, 

The  lone  wolf  leading. 
Then  in  the  Spring-time, 

Boughs  interlacing, 
The  doe  and  her  fawn 

Went  tenderly  pacing. 


158  TO  A  WOOD  PATH 

Here  you  flit,  there  you  flit, 

Teasingly  distant, 
Vanishing  ever, 

Ever  persistent, — 
Beckoning  us  on, 

Last-bom  of  the  million, 
To  walk  in  the  print 

Of  that  dreaming  reptilian. 

Where  the  wolves  quested, 

Savage  and  meagre, 
We  are  love's  pensioners, 

With  hearts  that  are  eager. 
Whither  the  path  leads, 

Dear,  little  matter; — 
Amber  of  spring  hole. 

Waterfall's  chatter. 

You  are  my  goal,  dear. 

Wild  wood  thing, 
Womanly,  wayward. 

Wandering. 

Florence  Wilkinson 


THE   INDIAN   BASKET  WEAVER 

"Indian  maiden  lift  my  rootlets 
From  the  earth  to  warming  sun; 

Coil  and  twist  them  round  a  bowlder 
Anchored  while  clean  waters  run." 

Tow'ring  tree  in  sylvan  whispers, 

Fanned  by  breeze  from  western  shore, 

Talked  to  one  who  knew  the  lisping, — 
Indian  maid  on  mossy  floor. 

"Take  the  ropes,  all  clean  and  softened. 
Split  and  scrape  each  even  strand. 

Take  the  best,  begin  thy  weaving. 
Draw  them  tight  in  growing  band. 

"Bend  and  turn  expanding  fabric, 
Make  a  globe  like  gourd  or  shell. 

Bend  and  turn  and  weave  thy  basket, 
Weave  and  pray;  'tis  well   'tis  well. 

"Haste  thee,  maid,  go  tell  thy  sisters 
How  the  spruce-tree  taught  thee  weave, 

Tell  thy  secret  of  the  forest. 
Bid  them  listen  and  believe," 


i6o         THE  INDIAN  BASKET  WEAVER 

Proud  the  maid  bore  rounded  basket. 

Swift  the  spruce-tree  message  flew. 
Weavers  love  mysterious  whispers; 

Weavers  know  the  trees  arc  true. 

"I  have  helped  you,  little  maiden," 
Crooned  the  swift,  the  clean-lipped  brook. 

"Paint  thou  me  upon  your  basket, 
Just  a  waving,  rippling  crook. " 

Sang  the  fern  by  tiny  river, 

Shyly  hid  from  garish  glare: 
"Use  my  stems  to  paint  the  waters; 

They  are  bright  as  glossy  hair." 

"Dost  thou  wish  the  glow  of  sunset. 
Soft  and  warm,  oh,  gentle  maid. 

Take  my  bark,"  cried  drooping  cherry, 
"Take  and  paint  the  linger-shade. " 

Forest  voices  guide  the  Indian, 
Colors  give  and  mystic  sign; 

Bookless  learning,  wildwood  wisdom, 
Lisping  echoes;  speech  divine. 

Edmond  S.  Meany 


HIT  THE  TRAIL 

Can't  you  hear  the  woods  a-callin*, 
Where  the  mountain  torrent's  fallin*, 
And  the  pine-trees  and  the  hemlocks 
Gently  sway? 

Can't  you  smell  the  bacon  fryin' 
In  the  morning  when  you're  tryin' 
Mighty  hard  to  rustle  grub  and 
Get  away? 

Pack  your  kit  and  get  acquainted 
With  some  air  that  isn't  tainted 
By  a  million  and  a  quarter  souls 
Or  more. 

Chuck  your  work  and  leave  your  labors 
To  your  careless  clerks  and  neighbors; 
Things  will  happen  as  they've  happened 
Oft  before. 

William  Aubrey 


CANADIAN  CAMPING  SONG 

White  tent  pitched  by  a  glassy  lake, 

Well  under  a  shady  tree, 
Or  by  rippling  rills  from  the  grand  old  hills, 

Is  the  summer  home  for  me. 
I  feel  no  blaze  of  the  noontide  rays, 

For  the  woodland  glades  are  mine, 
The  fragrant  air,  and  that  perfimie  rare, — 

The  odor  of  the  forest  pine. 

A  cooling  plunge  at  the  break  of  day, 

A  paddle,  a  row  or  sail; 
With  always  a  fish  for  a  midday  dish, 

And  plenty  of  Adam's  ale; 
With  rod  or  gun,  or  in  hammock  swing. 

We  glide  through  the  pleasant  days, 
When  darkness  falls  on  our  canvas  walls, 

We  kindle  the  camp-fire's  blaze. 

From  out  the  gloom  sails  the  silv'ry  moon, 

O'er  forests  dark  and  still; 
Now  far,  now  near,  ever  sad  and  clear. 

Comes  the  plaint  of  whip-poor-will ; 


CANADIAN  CAMPING  SONG  163 

With  song  and  laugh,  and  with  kindly  chaff, 

We  startle  the  birds  above; 
Then  rest  tired  heads  on  our  cedar  beds, 

And  dream  of  the  ones  we  love. 

James  D.  Edgar 


OUR  CAMPING   PLACE 

And  so  we  camped,  our  tent  pitched  low, 
Where  untamed  things  the  wildest  grow. 
The  proud  fir-trees  upflung  their  height 
Against  the  sky,  and  all  that  night 
They  chanted  psalms.     Oh,  it  was  good 
To  lie  within  the  murm'rous  wood 
And  feel  that  life  was  imderstood. 
The  river  sent  its  monotone 
Deep-voiced  from  off  its  harp  of  stone. 
A  primal  fragrance  from  the  earth 
Stirred  half  to  memory  a  birth 
In  ages  gone.     A  shadowy  thought, 
Evasive,  lost  as  soon  as  sought. 
A  tiny  vagrant  blew  his  flute 
Close  to  my  face  and  then  was  mute. 
The  imafraidness  of  it  all, 
The  harmony  of  nature's  thrall, 
Was  heaven  rest  from  worldly  call. 

E.  Patterson  Spear 


A  SONG  OF  THE  OPEN  ROAD 

The  old  Earth-Mother  calls  us, 

And  we  hearken  unto  her  cry, 
For  we  dare  not  question  her  bidding 

Lest  we  sicken  and  droop  and  die. 
The  spirit  of  change  is  burning 

As  a  fever  in  heart  and  brain. 
In  the  ranks  of  the  Free  Companions 

We  must  take  to  the  road  again. 

We  have  lain  in  the  tents  of  the  dwellers; 

We  have  ta'en  of  their  drink  and  food; 
We,  that  were  weary,  have  slumbered. 

Have  slumbered  and  found  rest  good. 
We  have  kissed  the  lips  of  their  maidens, 

From  their  kin  we  have  chosen  our  brides; 
But  the  summons  has  come  from  the  Mother, 

And  no  one  who  hears  it  abides. 

We  do  the  will  of  the  Mother, 
We  bow  to  the  Word  she  sends, 

Though  we  know  not  whither  we  journey, 
Nor  the  goal  where  the  journey  ends. 


i66  A   SONG  OF  THE  OPEN   ROAD 

On  the  quest  of  the  Strange  Adventure 

We  sally,  hand-in-hand, 
As  the  men  of  the  days  nomadic 

When  the  hunter  was  lord  in  the  land. 

The  winds  asweep  through  the  forests 

Shall  brace  our  souls  for  the  march, 
The  balm  of  the  dews  descending 

Shall  chasten  the  heats  that  parch. 
Through  vista  of  brakes  entangled 

The  stars  shall  guide,  in  the  night, 
By  day  the  sim  shall  quicken 

The  pulse  of  our  life's  delight 

Ho!  for  the  zest  of  travel, 

The  wayfarer's  romance, 
The  joy  of  the  unexpected. 

The  hope  of  the  noble  chance. 
We  have  girded  our  feet  with  sandals, 

We  carry  the  pilgrim's  load. 
In  the  ranks  of  the  Free  Companions 

We  take  to  the  open  road. 

Louis  J.  McQuilland 


THE   FLIGHT  OF  THE  GEESE 

I  hear  the  low  wind  wash  the  softening  snow, 
The  low  tide  loiter  down  the  shore.  The  night, 
Full  filled  with  April  forecast,  hath  no  light. 

The  salt  wave  on  the  sedge-flat  pulses  slow. 

Through  the  hid  furrows  lisp  in  murmurous  flow 
The  thaw's  shy  ministers;  and  hark!  The  height 
Of  heaven  grows  weird  and  loud  with  unseen  flight 

Of  strong  hosts  prophesying  as  they  go! 

High  through  the  drenched  and  hollow  night  their 
wings 
Beat  northward  hard  on  winter's  trail.     The  sound 
Of  their  confused  and  solemn  voices,  borne 
Athwart  the  dark  to  their  long  Arctic  morn. 

Comes  with  a  sanction  and  an  awe  profound, 
A  boding  of  unknown,  foreshadowed  things. 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


ROOSEVELT  IN  WYOMING 
Told  by  a  guide — 1899 

Do  you  know  Yancey's?    When  the  winding  trail 
From  Washburn  Mountain  strikes  the  old  stage 
road, 

And  wagons  from  Cooke  City  and  the  mail 
Unhitch  awhile,  and  teamsters  shift  the  load? 

A  handy  bunch  of  men  are  round  the  stove 

At  Yancey's — hunters  back  from  Jackson's  hole, 
And  Ed  Hough  telling  of  a  mighty  drove 
Of  elk  that  he  ran  down  to  Teton  Bowl. 

And  Yancey  he  says:  "Mr.  Woody,  there, 
Can  tell  a  hunting  yam  or  two — beside. 

He  guided  Roosevelt  when  he  shot  a  bear 
And  six  bull  elk  with  antlers  spreading  wide." 

But  Woody  is  a  guide  who  doesn't  brag; 

He  puffed  his  pipe  awhile,  then  gravely  said: 
"I  knew  he'd  put  the  Spaniards  in  a  bag. 

For  Mister  Roosevelt  always  picked  a  head. 


ROOSEVELT  IN  WYOMING  169 

"That  man  won't  slosh  around  in  politics 
And  waste  his  time  a-killing  little  game; 

He  studies  elk,  and  men,  and  knows  their  tricks, 
And  when  he  picks  a  head  he  hits  the  same." 

Now,  down  at  Yancey's  every  man's  a  sport, 
And  free  to  back  his  knowledge  up  with  lead; 

And  each  believes  that  Roosevelt  is  the  sort 
To  run  the  State,  because  he  "picks  a  head." 

Robert  Bridges 


THE  STAMPEDE 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  story  how  on  one  stormy  night 
A  wild  beef  herd  stampeded  down  yonder  to  the 
right? 

No?    Well,  you  see  that  sloping  hill,  beyond  the 

sage-brush  flat. 
East  of  the  old  rovmd-up  corral  where  all  the  boys 

are  at? 
*Twas  one  night  in  November,  and  I  was  on  first 

guard, 
A  storm  was  brewing  in  the  west,  the  wind  was 

blowing  hard. 
Of  wild  Montana  steers  we  had  a  thousand  head, 
Belonging  to  the  "  Circle  C, "  and  each  one  full  of  Ned. 
The  season  had  been  rainy  and  the  grass  was  thick 

and  long, 
So  the  herd  had  found  good  grazing  on  the  hills  the 

whole  day  long. 

The  clouds  had  piled  up  in  the  sky  a  strangely 

grotesque  mass; 
The  rain  began  to  patter  on  the  weeds  and  buf'lo 

grass. 


THE  STAMPEDE  171 

A  chilly  dampness  cooled  the  air  and  black  went  all 

the  sky; 
The  cattle  pawed  and  moved  about ;  the  wind  went 

whistling  by. 
The  lightning  flared  up  in  the  sky  and  all  was  deathly 

still, 
So  I  could  hear  the  melancholy  howl  of  a  coyote  on 

the  hill. 
The  vivid,  shifting  lightning  kept  bright  the  stormy 

scene, 
So  I  could  see  the  broken  hills  with  the  wash-outs 

in  between. 

And   Bill,    who   was   riding    first   guard  with   me 

that  night. 
Came  jogging  past  and  'lowed  it  certainly  was  a  sight. 
Then  he  commenced  to  whistle,  while  I  began  to 

sing— 
The  lightning  flashed  across  the  sky  like  demons  on 

the  wind. 
And  round  and  round  rode  Bill  and  I,  with  slickers 

buttoned  tight, 
Looking  like  dim  spectres  in  the  constant  changing 

light. 

Then  suddenly,  without  a  sign,  there  came  an  awfitl 

crash 
And  my  eyes  were  almost  blinded  by  a  bright  and 

btiming  flash 


172  THE  STAMPEDE 

That  filled  the  world  an  instant — then,  suddenly, 

went  out, 
While  little  sparks  of  lightning  seemed  floating  all 

about. 

I  don't  know  how  it  happened,  but  when  my  vision 

clears 
I  find  that  I  am  riding  in  the  midst  of  running  steers, 
And  oh,  the  thought  that  filled  my  brain,  as  through 

that  living  tide 
Of  hoofs,  and  horns,  and  glowing  eyes  I  made  that 

dreadful  ride. 

On,   on  we  rushed  at  deadly  speed — I   dare  not 

slacken  pace — 
A  stone  wall  could  not  stop  us  in  that  blood-curdling 

race. 
And  if  a  cowboy  ever  prayed  with  fervor  in  his 

prayer, 
'Twas  I  among  those  maddened  beasts,  for  I  prayed 

with  despair. 

Just  when  my  horse  was  almost  done,  and  Death 

stalked  all  about, 
I  heard  above  the  awful  roar  a  cowboy's  ringing 

shout, 
And  looking  backward  in  the  gloom,   I  caught  a 

fleeting  glance 
Of  cowboys  flitting  to  and  fro  like  spirits  in  a  dance. 


THE  STAMPEDE  173 

And  then  I  felt  my  nerve  come  back,  like  some  old, 

long-lost  friend, 
For  I  had  given  up  all  hope  and  waited  for  the 

end. 

At  first  I  couldn't  hardly  tell  just  what  they  hoped 

to  do, 
But  soon  I  saw  they  meant  to  cut  that  running 

herd  in  two, 
For  after  cutting  off  a  bunch  they  lined  up  with  a 

cheer 
To  form  a  solid  wedge  of  men  and  charge  them  in 

the  rear. 

Then  on  they  come,  through  tossing  horns,  with 

old  Jack  in  the  lead — 
The  cattle  parted  stubbornly,  but  didn't  slacken 

speed — 
On,  on  with  sturdy  force,  the  brave  lads  struggled  on. 
But  I  doubted  if  they'd  reach  me  before  my  horse 

was  gone. 
For  as  I  spurred  his  reeking  flanks  and  jerked  his 

head  up  high 
He  slowly  sank  beneath  me,  and  I  felt  that  I  must 

die. 
But  up  again  he  struggled:  then  down  he  went  once 

more. 
And  I  found  myself   a-knocking    at    old    Death's 

gloomy  door, 


174  THE  STAMPEDE 

And  when  I  got  my  senses  the  hoofs  and   horns 

were  gone, 
And  Jack  was  kneeling  at  my  side  with  a  streaming 

slicker  on. 
You  see,  my  leg  was  broken  and  chest  was  badly 

crushed 
By  half  a  dozen  reckless  steers  as  over  me  they 

rushed. 

But  it's  hard  to  kill  a  cowboy,  we're  pretty  tough 

you  know, 
Else  I'd  been  riding  in  the  clouds  with  the  angels 

long  ago. 

Wallace  Coburn 


A  LONE-LAND'S  LURE 

If  you  have  heard  a  wolf  complaining, 

From  a  far  lake's  lonely  shore, 
Where  the  reeds  hold  the  trail-spent  wreckage, 

Of  one  who  has  gone  before — 
Then  you  have  felt  that  soulless  sorrow, 

That  walks  in  a  lone-land's  night — 
Heard  the  winds  complain  o'er  those  who  came, 

Unscathed  from  the  Barrens  white. 

No  doubt  you've  welcomed  the  gaslight's  glow, 

When  the  toil  of  the  trail  was  o'er. 
Over  your  wine  you  renounced  your  claim 

To  that  lone-land's  golden  store. 
But  you  who  have  braved  the  Northland  trail — 

You  who  have  tasted  her  woes — 
Nothing  but  death  can  loosen  the  lure 

That  calls  you  back  to  her  snows. 

Chart  Pitt 


THE  GUARDIAN  OF  THE  WILDERNESS 

Five  thousand  miles  of  hill  and  wood, 

Barren  and  swamp  and  plain, 
Eastward  the  shores  of  Labrador, 

Westward  the  sea  again. 

Three  thousand   leagues  from  north  to  south, 

Arctic  to  Huron  shore. 
Bound 'ries  these  of  an  empire  vast, 

Guarded  forevermore. 

Beating  his  marches  day  and  night, 

Breasting  the  brimming  tide. 
Calling  mate  and  challenging  foe, 

His  lone  patrol  is  wide. 

His  lesser  kin  may  come  and  go, 

Driven  by  storm  and  stress. 
King  moose  stands  on  his  chosen  post, 

Guarding  the  wilderness. 

Thomas  Foster 


THE  OLD   DECOY-DUCK 

Within  the  cobwebbed  loft  he  sits 

'Mid  spars  and  caufs  and  wreck  of  things, 

Who,  couched  in  sedgy  marshes,  heard 
Wheel  to  his  lure  swift  vibrant  wings. 

Below  him  creep  the  lapping  tides, 
Before,  down  bleak  receding  lines. 

The  shuttles  of  the  waning  year 
Crimson  Acoaxet's  woof  of  pines; 

He  marks  the  lowering  cloud-wrack's  flight, 
When  spumed  before  the  rising  gale, 

The  homing  fisher-fleet,  close-reefed, 
Drives  up  the  channel,  sail  by  sail; 

He  sees  great  sunsets  bum  and  fade 
And,  through  his  close-set  window  bars. 

Tremble  along  the  dusky  wave 

The  twilight  splendor  of  lone  stars. 

To  him  all  sights  and  sounds  are  one; 

Not  the  slow  drip  of  simimer  rain. 
Nor,  when  fierce  rocking  gusts  go  by. 

The  clash  of  sleet  against  the  pane. 


178  THE  OLD  DECOY-DUCK 

No  faint  alarm  of  distant  guns 

That  wake  the  halcyon's  clamorous  brood, 
Or  thunder  on  the  bridge  of  hooves, 

Shall  rouse  him  from  his  timeless  mood. 
Mercy  E.  Baker 


THE  ROAD  TO  FAIRYLAND 

Do  you  seek  the  road  to  Fairyland? 

I'll  tell;  it's  easy,  quite. 
Wait  till  a  yellow  moon  gets  up 

O'er  the  purple  seas  by  night, 
And  gilds  a  shining  pathway 

That  is  sparkling  diamond  bright. 
Then,  if  no  evil  power  be  nigh 

To  thwart  you,  out  of  spite, 
And  if  you  know  the  very  words 

To  cast  a  spell  of  might. 
You  get  upon  a  thistledown, 

And,  if  the  breeze  is  right, 
You  sail  away  to  Fairyland 

Along  this  track  of  light. 

Ernest  Thompson-Seton 


DARKY  HUNTING  SONG 

Tek  a  cool  night,  good  an*  clear, 
Skiff  o'  snow  upon  de  groun'; 
Jes'  'bout  fall-time  o'  de  yeah 

Wen  de  leaves  is  dry  an'  brown; 
Tek  a  dog  an'  tek  a  axe, 

Tek  a  lantee'n  in  yo'  han', 
Step  light  whah  de  switches  cracks, 
Fu*  dey's  huntin'  in  de  Ian'. 
Down  thoo  de  valleys  an'  ovah  de  hills, 

Into  de  woods  whah  de  'simmon-tree  grows, 
Wakin'  an'  skeerin'  de  po'  whip-po'-wills, 
Huntin'  fu'  'coon  an'  fu'  'possiun  we  goes. 


Blow  dat  ho'n  dah  loud  an'  strong, 

Call  de  dogs  an'  da'kies  neah; 
Mek  its  music  cleah  an'  long. 

So  de  folks  at  home  kin  hyeah. 
Blow  it  twell  de  hills  an'  trees 

Sen's  de  echoes  tumblin'  back; 
Blow  it  twell  de  back'ard  breeze 

Tells  de  folks  we's  on  de  track. 


DARKY  HUNTING  SONG  i8i 

'Coons  is  a-ramblin'  an'  'possums  is  out; 

Look  at  dat  dog;  you  could  set  on  his  t^il! 
Watch    him    now  —  steady, — min' — what     you's 
about, 

Bless  me,  dat  animal's  got  on  de  trail! 


Listen  to  him  ba'kin'  now! 

Dat  means  bus'ness,  sho's  you  bo'n; 
Ef  he's  struck  de  scent  I  'low 

Dat  ere  'possum's  sholy  gone. 
Knowed  dat  dog  fu'  fo'teen  yeahs, 

An'  I  nevah  seed  him  fail 
Wen  he  sot  dem  fiappin'  eahs 
An'  went  off  upon  a  trail. 
Run,  Mistah  'Possum,  an'  run,  Mistah  'Coon, 
No  place  is  safe  fu'  yo'  ramblin'  to-night; 
Mas'  gin  de  lantee'n  an'  God  gin  de  moon. 
An'  a  long  hunt  gins  a  good  appetite. 


Look  hyeah,  folks,  you  hyeah  dat  change? 

Dat  ba'k  is  sha'per  dan  de  res'. 
Dat  ere  soun'  ain't  nothin'  strange, — 

Dat  dog's  talked  his  level  bes'. 
Somep'n'  's  treed,  I  know  de  soun'.    • 

Dah  now, — ^wha'd  I  tell  you?   Seel 

Dat  ere  dog  done  run  him  down; 

Come  hyeah,  he'p  cut  down  dis  tree. 
13 


iR2  DARKY   HUNTING  SONG 

Oh,  Mister  'Possum,  we  got  you  at  las' — 
Needn't  play  daid,  laying  dah  on  dc  groun'; 

Fros'  an'  dc  'simmons  has  made  you  grow  fas', — 
Won't  he  be  fine  when  he's  roasted  up  brown! 
Paul  Lawrence  Dunbar 


THE  HALF-BREED 

A  half-breed,  slim,  and  sallow  of  face, 
Alphonse  lies  full  length  on  his  raft, 
The  hardy  son  of  a  hybrid  race. 

Lithe  and  long,  with  the  Indian  grace. 

Versed  in  the  varied  Indian  craft, 
A  half-breed,  slim,  and  sallow  of  face. 

He  nurses  within  mad  currents  that  chase — 

The  swift,  the  sluggish — a  foreign  graft. 
This  hardy  son  of  a  hybrid  race. 

What  southern  airs,  what  snows  embrace 

Within  his  breast — soft  airs  that  waft 
The  half-breed — slim,  and  sallow  of  face, 

Far  from  the  Gatineau's  foaming  base! 

And  what  strong  potion  hath  he  quaffed, 
This  hardy  son  of  a  hybrid  race, 

That  upon  this  sun-baked  blistered  place 

He  sleeps,  with  his  hand  on  the  burning  haft, 

A  Metis — slim  and  sallow  of  face. 
The  hardy  son  of  a  hybrid  race! 

S.  Frances  Harrison 


SPORT 

Ah!  list  the  music  of  the  whistling  wings, 
As  westward  sweeps  the  long-extended  corps; 

Our  own  outarde  revisits  well-known  haunts, 
And  the  loud  quack  rings  out  anew  from  sea  to 
shore. 

The  canvas-back  a  double  zest  affords, 
And  yields  a  dish  to  "set  before  a  king," 

And  where  the  north-shore  streams  rush  to  the  sea, 
Here  the  rare  harlequin  shoots  past  on  rapid  wing. 

To  Grondine's  flats  the  ibis  yet  returns, 

The  snowy  goose  loves  well  the  sedgy  shore; 

Loud  booms  the  bittern  'midst  the  clustering  reeds, 
And  the  famed  heron  nests  on  pine-top  as  of  yore. 

If  shapely  form  and  splendour  charm  the  eye. 
The   graceful   wood  -  duck   claims   fair   beauty's 
prize; 
No  gorgeous  plimies  like  his  adorn  the  crest; 
No  lovelier  shades  could  feathers  yield  or  spark- 
ling eyes. 


SPORT  1 8s 

The  shady  copse  the  wary  woodcock  haunts; 
From  Chateau   Richer's   swamps  the  snipe  up- 
springs ; 
Ontario's  fields  know  well  the  scurrying  quail, 
And  o'er  the  glassy  lake  the  loon's  weird  laughter 
rings. 

Afar  'midst  forest  glades,  where  Red  Men  lie; 

On  mossy  log  the  ruffled  grouse  strut  and  drum; 
The  plump  tetrao   courts   the  spruce-tree's  shade; 

And  spotless  ptarmigan  with  boreal  tempests 
come. 

Resplendent  thro'  the  grove  the  turkey  roams, 
And  lends  a  deeper  grace  to  Christmas  cheer; 

Our  silvery  lakes  still  claim  the  graceful  swan; 
And  o'er  the  uplands  shrill  the  plover's  pipe  we 
hear. 

Or  come,  where  far  on  rolling  western  plains, 
Beneath  the  brushwood  sagefowl  snugly  lie; 

And  prairie  hens  rush  boldly  at  the  foe, 

Their  cowering  brood  to  shield,  as  swoops  the 
falcon  by. 

A  hunter  thou?    The  grim  bear  courts  thy  skill, 
And  fearless  foams  ere  yet  he  seeks  his  den; 

His  glossy  robes  might  grace  triumphal  car, — 
His  pearly  spoils  proclaim  the  rank  of  dusky  men. 


i86  SPORT 

The  wolf,  still  tireless,  tracks  his  victim's  trail ; 

The  prowling  lynx,  like  sleuth-hound, wends  his  way; 
And  by  the  well-worn  path  the  careajcm 

Drops  from  his  hidden  perch  upon  the  unwary  prey. 

Shy  Reynard  follows  where  the  startled  hare 
Darts  thro'  the  matted  elders  like  a  gleam; 

And  the  sleek  otter  on  his  titbits  dines, 

Nor   dreads    the    hound's    loud   bark   upon   his 
lonely  stream. 

Far  from  men's  haunts  the  beaver  builds  his  dam 
And  ponderous  mound,  to  keep  him  safe  from 
harm; 
His  larder  filled  with  choicest  winter  stores, — 
Cold  winds  may  bite  and  blow,  his  lair  is  soft  and 
warm. 

Thro'  rushing  chute  and  pool  the  fisher  swims; 

And  mink  and  martin  sport  right  merrily; 
While  overhead  the  angry  squirrel  chides, 

And  warns  the  rude  intruder  from  his  nut-stored 
tree. 

And  when  the  maple-trees  are  stripped  and  bare, — 
When  land  and  stream  with  snow  are  mantled  o'er, — 

When  light  toboggans  down  the  mountains  sweep. 
And  the  bold  skater  skims  the  lake  from  shore 
to  shore, 


SPORT  187 

Then  don  thy  snowshoes,  grasp  thy  rifle  true; 

The  timid  red  deer  thro'  the  forest  bounds, — 
The  wary  caribou  rests  on  the  frozen  lake,* 

And  browse  the  mighty  moose  upon  their  endless 
rounds. 

These  all  and  more  await  the  hunter's  skill; 

Such  trophies  well  our  antlered  halls  adorn; 
Their  shining  coats  may  win  a  golden  prize, 

Or  keep  us  snug  and  warm  amid  the  winter  storm. 

But  yet,  possessed  of  aught  that  hands  could  win, 
Or  all  that  pleasure  puts  within  our  ken. 

We  joy  to  know  a  nobler  gift  is  ours, — 

We  own  the  heaven-sent  heritage  of  free-bom  men. 

Duncan  Anderson 


MORNING   IN   CAMP 

A  bed  of  ashes  and  a  half-bumed  brand 

Now  mark  the  spot  where  last  night's  camp-fire 

sprung 
And  licked  the  dark  with  slender,  scarlet  tongue; 
The  sea  draws  back  from  shores  of  yellow  sand 
Nor  speaks  lest  he  awake  the  sleeping  land; 
Tall  trees  grow  out  of  shadows;  high  among 
Their  sombre  boughs  one  clear,  sweet  song  is  sung; 
In  deep  ravine  by  drooping  cedars  spanned 
All  drowned  in  gloom,  a  flying  pheasant's  whin- 
Tends  morning's  solemn  hush;  gray  rabbits  run 
Across  the  clovered  glade;  then  far  away 
Upon  a  hill,  each  huge  expectaiit  fir 

Holds  open  arms  in  welcome  to  the  sun — 
Great,  pulsing  heart  of  bold,  advancing  day. 
Herbert  Bashford 


SOCOBIE'S  PASSING 

Socobie,  ag^d  and  bent  with  pain, 
At  the  time  of  the  year  when  the  red  leaves  fly 
Crawled  from  his  tent  door  down  to  the  river, 
"I  will  try  my  wrist  and  my  skill  again 
And  sweep  a  paddle  before  I  die." 

Time  falls — the  mind  falls — the  grey  geese  draw  on. 
There  is  silence  and  peace  on  our  Mother  St.  John. 

Socobie,  once  a  king  of  his  tribe, 

Once  a  lover,  a  poet,  a  man. 

Launched  his  sun-scarred  craft  to  the  river. 

"I  will  try  my  strength  where  the  rapids  jibe — 

I  will  nin  her  sheer,  as  a  master  can." 

At  the  time  of  the  year  when  the  pass  is  blue 
And  the  spent  leaf  falls  in  the  empty  wood 
Socobie  put  out  on  the  merry  river; 
The  brown  blade  lifted  the  white  canoe — 
The  rapids  shouted,  the  forests  stood. 


I90  SOCOBIE'S   PASSING 

Down  in  the  village  the  hearths  were  bright, 
And  the  night  frost  gleamed  in  the  after-grass, 
And  the  farmers  were  homing  up  from  the  river, 
When  out  of  the  star-mist,  slender  and  white 
A  birch  craft  leapt  and  they  watched  it  jxiss. 

Time  falls — the  frost  falls — the  stars  draw  on. 
What  voice  cries,  "Farewell"  to  our  Mother  St.  John.'' 

Theodore  Roberts 


THE   LOST  LAGOON 

It  is  dusk  on  the  Lost  Lagoon, 

And  we  two  dreaming  the  dusk  away, 
Beneath  the  drift  of  a  twilight  gray, 
Beneath  the  drowse  of  an  ending  day, 

And  the  curve  of  a  golden  moon. 

It  is  dark  in  the  Lost  Lagoon, 

And  gone  are  the  depths  of  haunting  blue, 
And  grouping  gulls,  and  the  old  canoe, 
The  singing  firs,  and  the  dusk  and — you, 

And  gone  is  the  golden  moon. 

O  the  lure  of  the  Lost  Lagoon! — 

I  dream  to-night  that  my  paddle  blurs 
The  purple  shade  where  the  seaweed  stirs, 
I  hear  the  call  of  the  singing  firs 

In  the  hush  of  the  golden  moon. 

E.  Pauline  Johnson 


HIM   AN'   ME 

We'd  greased  our  tongues  with  bacon  'til  they'd  shy 

at  food  an'  fork 
An'  the  trails  o'  thought  were  slippery  an*  slopin' 

towards  New  York; 
An'  our  gizzards  shook  an'  trembled  an'  were  most 

uncommon  hot 
An'  the  oaths  were  slippin'  easy  from  the  tongue  o' 

Philo  Scott. 

Then  skyward  rose  a  flapjack  an'  a  hefty  oath  he 

swore 
An'  he  spoke  of  all  his  sufferin'  which  he  couldn't 

Stan'  no  more; 
An'  the  flapjack  got  to  jumpin'  like  a  rabbit  on  the 

run 
As  he  gave  his  compliments  to  them  who  couldn't 

p'int  a  gun. 

He  told  how  deer  would  let  'em  come  an'  stan'  an' 

rest  an'  shoot 
An'  how  bold  an'  how  insultin'  they  would  eye  the 

tenderfoot ; 


HIM  AN'  ME  193 

How  he— Fide  Scott— was  hankerin'  far  suthin'  fit 
to  eat. 

" •"   says   he,   "Le's  you  an'  me  go'  out  an' 

find  some  meat." 

We  paddled  off  a-whisperin'  beneath  the  long  birch 

limbs 
An'  we  snooked  along  as  silent  as  a  sucker  when 

he  swims; 
I  could  hear  him  slow  his  paddle  as  eroun'   the 

turns  he  bore; 
I  could  hear  his  neck  a-creakin'  while  his  eye  run 

up  the  shore. 

An'  soon  we  come  acrost  a  buck  as  big  an'  bold  as  sin 

An'  Philo  took  t'  swallerin'  to  keep  his  feehn's  in; 
An'  every  time  he  swallered,  as  he  slowly  swung 
eroun', 

I  could  hear  his  Adam's  apple  go  a-squeakin'  up  an' 
down. 

He  sot  an'  worked  his  paddle  jest  as  skilful  as  he 

could 
An'  we  went  on  slow  an'  careless,  like  a  chunk  o' 

floatin'  wood; 
An'  I  kind  o'  shook  an'  shivered  an'  the  pesky  ol' 

canoe 
It  seemed  to  feel  as  I  did,  for  it  shook  an'  shivered 

too. 


194  HIM   AN'   ML 

I  sot  there,  full  o'  deviltry,  a-p'intin'  with  the 
Kun, 

An'  we  come  up  clost  and  closter,  but  the  deer  he 
didn't  run; 

An'  Philo  shct  his  teeth  so  hard  he  split  his  briar- 
root 

As  he  held  his  breath  a-waitin'  an'  expectin'  me  to 
shoot. 

I  could  kind  o'  feel  him  hanker,  I  could  kind  o' 

hear  him  think. 
An'  we'd  come  so  nigh  the  animal  we  didn't  dast  to 

wink, 
But  I  kep'  on  a-p'intin'  of  the  rijfle  at  the  deer 
Jest  as  if  I  was  expectin'  fer  to  stick  it  in  his  ear. 

An'  Philo  tetched  the  gunnel  soft  an'  shook  it  with 

his  knee; 
I  kind  o'  felt  him  nudgin'  an'  a-wishin'  he  was  me, 
But  I  kep'  on  a-p'intin'  with  a  foolish  kind  o'  grin, 
Enjojan'  all  the  wickedness  that  he  was  holdin'  in. 

An'  of  a  sudden  I  could  feel  a  tremble  in  his  feet; 
I  knew  that  he  was  gettin'  mad  an'  fillin'  up  with 

heat. 
An'  his  blood  it  kind  o'  simmered,  but  he  couldn't 

say  a  damn — 
He'd  the  feelin's  of  a  panther  an'  the  quiet  of  a 

lamb. 


HIM  AN'   ME  I9S 

But  I  only  sot  a-p'intin'  at  the  shoulder  of  the  deer 
An'  we  snooked   along  as  ca-areful    an'^  we    kep' 

a-drawin'  near; 
An'  Philo — so  deceivin' — as  if  frozen  into  rock, 
Was  all  het  up  with  sinfulness  from  headgear  unto 

sock. 

An'  his  foot  come  creepin'  for'ards  an'  he  tetched  me 

with  his  boot 
An'   he  whispered  low  an'   anxious,   an'   says  he, 

"Why  don't  ye  shoot?" 
An'  the  buck  he  see  the  time  had  come  for  him  an' 

us  to  part 
An'  he  flung  the  spray  as  Philo  pulled  the  trigger  of 

his  heart. 

He  had  panthers  in  his  bosom,  he  had  horns  upon  his 

mind; 
An'  the  panthers  spit  an'  rassled  an'  their  fur  riz  up 

behind ; 
An'  he  gored  me  with  his  languidge  an'  he  clawed  me 

with  his  eye 
'Til  I  wisht  that,  when  I  done  him  dirt,  I  hadn'tbeen 

so  nigh. 

He  scairt  the  fish  beneath  us  an'  the  birds  upon  the 

shore 
An'  he  spoke  of  all  his  sufferin'  which  he  couldn't 

Stan'  no  more; 


196  HIM   AN'   ME 

Then  he  sot  an'  thought  an'  muttered  as  he  pushed  a 

mile  er  so 
Like  a  man  that's  lost  an'  weary  on  the  motuitain 

of  his  woe. 

An'  he  eyed  me  over  cur'ous  an'  with  pity  on  his  face 
An'  he  seemed  to  be  a  sortin'  words  to  make  'em 

fit  the  case. 
"Of  all  the  harmless  critters  that  I  ever  met, "  says  he, 
"There  ain't  not  none  more  harmlesser — ^my  God! — 

than  what  you  be. " 

An'  he  added,  kind  o'  sorrowful,  an'  hove  a  mighty 

sigh: 
"I'd  be  'shamed  t'  meet  another  deer  an'  look  him 

in  the  eye. 
God  knows  a  man  that  p'ints  so  never  otter  hev  no 

grub, 
What  game  are  you  expectin'  fer  t'  slaughter  with  a 

club?" 

An'  I  answered  with  a  riddle,    "It  has  head  an' 

eyes  an'  feet 
An'  is  black  an'  white  an'  harmless,  but  a  fearful 

thing  to  meet; 
It's  a  long,  an'  pesky  animal  as  any  in  the  coimtry. 
Can't  ye  guess? — I've  ketched  a  pome  an'  I'll  give 

ye  half  the  bounty. " 

Irving  Bacheller 


SONG  OF  THE  CAMP 

Up  in  the  naked  branches 

The  lonely  night-wind  grieves. 
Something  rustles,  softly, 

In  the  drift  of  wind-tossed  leaves. 
The  nights  are  filled  with  glamour, 

When  the  year  creeps  'round  to  Fall, 
That  chains  us  to  those  olden-things, 

From  the  days  beyond  recall. 

There's  frost  upon  the  marshes. 

And  the  wild  geese  are  a-wing. 
The  dawns  are  gray  and  listless. 

And  the  birds  no  longer  sing. 
But  you  hear  the  game-trail  calling. 

As  you  watch  the  camp-fire  blaze — 
So  fill  the  night-bound  forest, 

With  a  song  from  olden-days. 

Chart  Pitt 


14 


THE   BALL  AND   THE   BATTUE 

Ye  who  care  to  encourage  the  long-feather'd  breed, 
To  the  Ball  overnight  let  the  Battue  succeed; 
For  when  the  heart  aches, 
Ten  to  one  the  hand  shakes 
And  sighs  beget  curses,  and  curses  mistakes. 

For  the  shot-belt  of  leather,   in   velveteen  drest, 
I  have  doff' d  the  gold  chain  and  laid  by  the  silk 
vest. 

A  pancake  so  fiat 

Was  my  ball-going  hat, 
But  a  dumpling  to  shoot  in  is  better  than  that. 

My  Manton  to  concert  pitch  tun'd  for  the  day, 
How  the  pheasants  will  reel  in  the  air  as  I  play! 

What  snipes  as  they  fly 

Pirouette  in  the  sky, 
And  rabbits  and  hares  in  the  gallopade  die. 

"Once  more  might  I  view  thee,  sweet  partner!" 

"Mark  hare! 
She  is  gone  down  the  middle  and  up  again  there" — 


THE   BALL  AND  THE   BATTUE  199 

"That  hand  might  I  kiss, 
Mark  cock! — did  I  miss? 
Ye  Gods,   who  could  shoot  with  a  weapon  like 

this?"— 

Thus    a    father   may    rescue    his    pheasants    from 

slaughter, 
The  best  of  preservers  his  own  pretty  daughter; 
Sad  thoughts  in  the  pate, 
On  the  heart  a  sad  weight, 
Who,  blinded  by  Cupid,  could  ever  aim  straight? 
R.  E.  Egerton-Warburton 


MY  COMRADE   CANOE 

True  comrade,  we  have  tasted  life  together; 
With  the  wild  joy  at  heart  have  slipped  the  tether 

To  follow,  follow,  to  strange  wildernesses, 
The  frank  enticement  of  the  wind  and  weather. 

Joy  of  the  quivering  pole,  the  thrilling  sinew. 
When   mad   black    rapids   shook   the    soul   within 
you, 

As  climbing  toward  the  lakes  of  inland  silence 
I  laughed  to  see  the  fanged  rocks  strain  to  win 

you. 

Joy  of  the  moonlight  on  the  quiet  reaches. 
Where  loitering  we  caught  the  word  that  teaches 

The  poise  of  Godhead  to  the  questing  spirit. 
The  urge  of  Springtime  to  the  budding  beeches. 

When  through  the  dusk  the  serried  clouds  were 

massing, 
Where  some  lost  lake  among  the  hills  was  glassing 

The  stormy  fire  above  the  western  spruces. 
The  looming  moose  would  wonder  at  our  passing. 


MY  COMRADE  CANOE  201 

Then,  when  the  outland  voices  ceased  to  hold  us, 
When  winds  would  tell  no  more  what  once  the*y  told 
us, 
We  dreamed  how  far  away  a  little  village 
Lay  waiting  with  its  welcome  to  enfold  us. 

William  Carman  Roberts 


AUTUMN  DAYS 

In  dreams  of  the  night  I  hear  the  call 
Of  wild  duck  scudding  across  the  lake, 

In  dreams  I  see  the  old  convent  wall, 
Where  Ottawa's  waters  surge  and  break. 

But  Hercule  awakes  me  ere  the  sun 

Has  painted  the  eastern  skies  with  gold, 

Hercule!  true  knight  of  the  rod  and  gun 
As  ever  lived  in  the  days  of  old. 

"Arise!  tho'  the  moon  hangs  high  above, 
The  sun  will  soon  usher  in  the  day. 

And  the  southerly  wind  that  sportsmen  love 
Is  blowing  across  St.  Louis  Bay." 

The  wind  is  moaning  among  the  trees, 
Along  the  shore  where  the  shadows  lie. 

And  faintly  borne  on  the  fresh'ning  breeze 
From  yonder  point  comes  the  loon's  wild  cry. 

Like  diamonds  flashing  athwart  the  tide 
The  dancing  moonbeams  quiver  and  glow, 

As  out  on  the  deep  we  swiftly  glide 
To  our  distant  Mecca,  He  Perrot. 


AUTUMN  DAYS  203 

He  Perrot  far  to  the  southward  lies, 

Pointe  Claire  on  the  lee  we  leave  behind, 

And  eager  we  gaze  with  longing  eyes, 
For  faintest  sign  of  the  deadly  "blind." 

Past  the  point  where  Ottawa's  current  flows — 
A  league  from  St.  Lawrence  golden  sands — 

Out  in  the  bay  where  the  wild  grass  grows 
We  mark  the  spot  where  our  ambush  stands. 

We  enter  it  just  as  the  crimson  flush 
Of  mom  illimiines  the  hills  with  light. 

And  patiently  wait  the  first  mad  rush 
Of  pinions  soaring  in  airy  flight. 

A  rustle  of  wings  from  over  there, 
Where  all  night  long  on  watery  bed 

The  flocks  have  slept — and  the  morning  air 
Rings  with  the  messenger  of  lead. 

Many  a  pilgrim  from  far  away 

Many  a  stranger  from  distant  seas, 

Is  dying  to-day  on  St.  Louis  Bay, 
To  requiem  sung  by  the  southern  breeze. 

Then  up  with  the  anchor  and  ply  the  oar. 
For  homeward  again  our  course  must  bear. 

Farewell  to  the  "blind"  by  He  Perrot's  shore 
And  welcome  the  harbor  of  old  Pointe  Claire! 
William  Henry  Drummqnd 


THE   RUFFED  GROUSE 

Ice  and  snow  incase  Chocorua, 

Ice  and  snow  press  down  the  forests, 

Ice  and  snow  enthrall  the  rivers, 

Under  ice  and  snow  the  lake  groans, 

Sends  wild  moanings  to  the  mountains, 

Tells  its  pain  to  gloomy  Paugus, 

Starts  the  deer  on  Passaconway. 

Few  and  feeble  are  the  sun's  rays. 

Coming  late  and  going  early. 

Long  the  nights  and  chill  their  breathings. 

Scant  the  song  of  birds  in  these  days. 

When  the  pallid  sun  has  vanished. 
Under  Osceola's  ledges. 
When  the  lengthening  shadows  mingle 
In  a  sombre  sea  of  twilight, 
From  the  hemlocks  in  the  hollow 
Swift  emerging  comes  the  partridge; 
Not  a  sound  betrays  her  starting, 
Not  a  sound  betrays  her  lighting 
In  the  birches  by  the  wayside. 
In  her  favored  place  for  budding. 


THE  RUFFED  GROUSE  205 

When  the  twilight  turns  to  darkness, 
When  the  fox's  bark  is  sounding,         » 
From  her  buds  the  partridge  hastens, 
Seeks  the  soft  snow  by  the  hazels. 
Burrows  in  its  sheltering  masses, 
Burrows  where  no  owl  can  find  her. 

Ah,  how  welcome  is  the  Springtime! 
With  its  hoard  of  buds  expanding, 
With  its  berries  left  uncovered 
By  the  melting  of  the  snow-fields. 
With  its  sweet,  pure  western  breezes, 
With  the  perfimie  of  the  mayflower, 
With  the  singing  of  the  finches. 
With  the  music  of  the  waters. 

From  the  glens  below  Chocorua 
Comes  the  sound  of  log-cocks  drumming. 
In  the  poplar  groves  of  Paugus 
Every  downy  beats  his  answer. 
In  the  orchard  and  the  birch  wood 
Joyous  titmice  plan  their  dwellings, 
In  the  pine  wood  by  the  lake  shore 
Bustles  back  and  forth  the  nuthatch. 

Then  it  is  the  stately  partridge 
Spreads  his  ruff  and  mounts  his  rostrum, 
Gazes  proudly  round  the  thicket. 
Sounds  his  strange  and  muffled  signal. 


2o6  THE  RUFFED  GROUSE 

First  with  slow  and  heavy  measure, 
Then  like  eager,  hurried  heart-beats, 
Ending  in  a  nervous  flutter 
Faster  than  the  ear  can  reckon. 

Midway  in  the  May-month  season, 
From  her  haughty,  strutting  master 
To  the  silence  of  the  pine  wood 
Steals  the  happy  partridge  mother. 
Under  cloak  of  yew  and  moose-wood, 
Under  brush  and  in  the  shadow, 
Seeks  a  hollow  lined  with  mosses. 
Filled  with  leaves  and  sweet  pine  needles; 
There  her  pale  brown  eggs  she  fondles. 
There  in  anxious  silence  watches, 
Stirs  not,  starts  not,  though  dread  danger 
Passes  near  her,  crashes  by  her. 

Warm  the  leaves  when  chicks  are  hatching, 
Full  the  ground  of  dainty  morsels, 
Broad  the  ferns  to  hide  her  darlings. 
Keen  her  ear  to  tell  of  danger. 

If  perchance  a  man  approaches, 
Nears  her  brood  and  notes  her  presence. 
Ah,  how  quickly  does  the  mother 
Risk  herself  to  save  her  nestlings! 
Whining,  moaning,  near  him  crouching. 
Limping,  fluttering,  leading  onward, 


THE   RUFFED  GROUSE  207 

While  the  chicks  with  matchless  cunning 

Craft  inherited  from  ages,  ^ 

Under  leaves,  beneath  broad  mushrooms, 

Into  stumps,  or  gaping  ledges 

Crowd  their  downy,  frightened  bodies, 

Wait  till  danger  long  has  vanished. 

Then  with  reassuring  mewing 

Comes  the  mother  back  to  call  them. 

Nestle  one  by  one  beneath  her, 

Soothe  their  fright  and  preen  their  plumage. 

Anxious  days — the  days  of  autumn. 
When  from  foggy  mom  till  evening 
Every  moimtain  rolls  back  echoes. 
Guns  are  thund'ring,  dogs  are  yelping, 
Danger  lurks  in  every  thicket. 
Flocks  are  broken,  broods  are  scattered. 

Red  the  maples — red  like  heart's  blood, 
Thick  the  leaves  fall — thick  as  sorrows. 
Every  breeze  becomes  a  warning, 
Every  creaking  limb  a  terror. 
Every  trailing  stem  of  blackb'ry 
Seems  a  snare  to  seize  the  heedless. 

High  upon  the  oaks  the  squirrels 
Frolic  fast  among  the  acorns. 
On  the  moss  beneath,  the  chipmunks 
Gather  up  the  falling  treasures. 


2o8  THE  RUFFED  GROUSE 

Shrill  and  nervous  is  their  signal, 
If  their  ever-watchful  glances 
Fall  upon  the  skulking  hunter 
Prowling  through  the  distant  shadows. 

When  October  sears  the  oak  leaves 
Silence  settles  on  the  forest. 
Southward  have  the  swallows  darted, 
Southward  sped  the  warbler  legions, 
Southward  are  the  thrushes  flocking, 
Crows  complaining  seek  the  ocean. 
With  the  snowfiakes  o'er  the  mountains 
Hasten  past  the  hawks  from  Northland, 
Speed  along  the  titmice,  juncos, 
White-crowned  sparrows,  wrens,  and  creepers, 
Tiny  kinglets,  sweet-voiced  bluebirds, 
All  in  eager  search  for  havens 
Where  the  touch  of  winter  kills  not. 
Close  behind  them  come  the  crossbills, 
Come  with  joyous  notes  the  redpolls, 
Come  pine  grosbeaks,  too  confiding. 
Come  the  hosts  from  Arctic  nesting. 

Colder  grows  the  lengthening  darkness. 
Feebler  grow  the  sun's  caresses. 
Wailing  winds  rush  through  the  forests. 
Sweeping  myriad  leaves  before  them; 
But  the  partridge  fears  no  storm-wind. 
Winter  has  for  her  no  terrors. 


THE  RUFFED  GROUSE  209 

Warm  her  heart  and  thick  her  feathers, 
Strong  her  wings  and  brave  her  naturp, 
She  exults  in  whirling  beech  leaves, 
Groaning  branches  make  her  music, 
Snowflakes  fomi  for  her  a  shelter, 
Food  is  certain  as  in  summer, 
Foes  are  fewer  than  in  Autiunn. 

Countless  ages  has  Chocorua 
Seen  the  partridge  in  the  forest, 
Heard  his  intermittent  drumming. 
Seen  him  budding  night  and  morning. 
May  the  ages  still  unnumbered. 
While  the  mountain  horn  endureth, 
Find  the  partridge  near  Chocorua 
Joyous  all  the  twelve-month  season. 

Frank  Bolles 


O'   RARE   OCTOBER   DAYS 

O'  the  rare  days  of  October,  when  the  stubbles  are 
all  bare, 
And  the  harvest  is  outstanding  in  the  shock; 
When  the  russet  leaves  turn  golden,  and  the  world's 
without  a  care, 
As  the  sunrise  glints  on  barrel  and  on  stock. 
0'  the  days  of  hearty  tramping  after  "merry,  brave, 
brown  Bob, " 
With  the  faithful  pointers  ranging,  or  at  heels; 
What  can  mar  the  exultation,  or  the  upland  hunter 
rob. 
Of  the  pleasure  that  on  such  a  day  he  feels ! 

When  the  birds  rise  from  the  covert,  with  a  whirr 
that  surges  thro' 
Every  nerve  and  sets  them  tingling  with  a  thrill; 
While  the  soul  is  all  absorbed  with  a  glance  along 
the  blue 
And  the  query:  Shall  I  miss  or  shall  I  kill? 


O'  RARE  OCTOBER   DAYS  211 

O'  the  rare  days  of  October,  with  the  dogs  both  on  a 
point, 
And  the  partridges  a-skimming  o'er  the  lea; 
Let  the  statesman  vainly  wrestle  with  the  times  all 
out  of  joint, 
Give  the  joys  of  "rare  October  days"  to  me. 

Charles  Turner 


THE   OLD   HUNTING   COAT 

A  thing  of  stiff  canvas,  dirt  spotted  and  torn; 

Soiled  corduroy  collar;  huge  pockets  that  tote 
The  game;  and  its  fabric  is  crumpled  and  worn; 

Yet  memories  cling  to  the  old  hunting  coat. 

Its  color  of  tan  with  the  ground  smoothly  blends 
And   frights   not    the    timid    and    sharp-sighted 
game; 

By  delicate  thread  its  bone  button  suspends, 
Untouched  by  the  hand  of  the  unseeing  dame. 

On  the  sleeve  a  light  feather  seems  destined  to  stay ; 

The  scent  of  burnt  powder  around  it  doth  cling; 
And  its  pockets  conceal  but  a  motley  array 

Of  pipe  and  tobacco,  shells,  matches  and  string. 

And  many  a  night  it  has  pillowed  the  head 

That  rested  in  peace  'neath  a  sheltering  tent 
That  on  some  stream's  banks,  tree-protected,  was 
spread. 
Where  few  but  Dame  Nature's  wild  creatures 
e'er  went. 


THE  OLD  HUNTING  COAT  213 

Ah,  if  it  could  speak!    It  would  eagerly  tell 
Of  long,   breathless   chase   through   the   thicket 
and  thorns 

In  pursuit  of  the  elk  that  fought  nobly  and  well, 
But  those  antlers  the  old  hunting  coat  now  adorns. 

Or  perhaps  it  would  whisper  of  morning's  sharp  chill 
And  rush-hidden  boat  in  some  lake  at  daylight, 

And  speak  of  the  silence,  and  e'en  of  the  thrill 
That  it  felt  when  the  canvasback  started  the 
flight. 

Or  yet  it  could  speak  of  the  favorite  camp 

Where  the  brook  makes  sweet  music  and  soft 
breezes  blow; 
And  the  odor  of  firs  and  of  wild  flowers,  dew  damp. 
And  leaping  of  trout  where  the  slender  weeds 
grow. 

The  broadcloth  may  scorn  it,  the  woolen  may  sneer. 
Aristocrats  they,  keeping  always  remote; 

Yet  none  of  them  offer  the  comfort  and  cheer 
And  happiness  found  in  the  old  hunting  coat. 

Anon 


15 


MEN   IN   THE   ROUGH 

Men  in  the  rough — on  the  trails  all  new-broken — 
Those  are  the  friends  we  remember  with  tears; 

Few  are  the  words  that  such  comrades  have  spoken — 
Deeds  are  their  tributes  that  last  through  the 
years. 

Men  in  the  rough — sons  of  prairie  and  mountain — 
Children  of  nature,  warm-hearted,  clear-eyed; 

Friendship  with  them  is  a  never-sealed  fountain; 
Strangers  are  they  to  the  altars  of  pride. 

Men  in  the  rough — curt  of  speech  to  their  fellows — 

Ready  in  everything,  save  to  deceive; 
Theirs  are  the  friendships  that  time  only  mellows, 
And  death   cannot  sever  the   bonds  that   they 
weave. 

Arthur  Chapman 


THE  OUTLAND  TRAILS 

My  head  grew  gray  on  the  outland  trails  where  I 

stood  a  man  with  men; 
And  now  I  whine  Hke  a  hungry  whelp  to  go  out  on 

the  trails  again. 

How  the  whip  of  a  rifle  lifts  my  heart  to  the  crags  of 

a  hidden  range, 
Where  the  black  pines  circle  the  riven  peak  and  the 

silences  estrange 
A  man  from  himself  and  all  humankind;  where  the 

winds  no  leash  have  known, 
And  the  soul  is  king  of  itself  again,  up  there  with 

the  stars,  alone. 

The  sea-worn  sails  that  idle  hang  in  the  smoke  of 

the  harbor  slips 
Know  a  sweeter  song  than  was  ever  sung  by  the 

fairest  woman's  lips; 
And  the  sea  that  cradles  the  dripping  prow  as  it 

comes  to  its  island  rest 
Is  a  sweeter  place  for  a  weary  head  than  the  fairest 

woman's  breast. 


2i6  THE  OUTLAND  TRAILS 

Where  the  pack-train  plods  in  the  desert  noon  and 

the  world  runs  out  to  space, 
And  the  lone  coyote's  hunger-cry  breaks  the  startled 

ponies'  pace; 
Where  the  visioned  lake  is  a  mockery  and  death 

holds  the  pouch  of  gold, 
There  is  more  of  peace  than  in  all  your  creeds; 

yea,  more  by  a  thousandfold! 

Saddle  and  rifle,  spur  and  rope,  and  the  smell  of 

sage  in  the  rain, 
As  down  the  canon  the  pintos  lope  and  spread  to 

the  shadowed  plain.  .  .  . 
Up  on  the  ledge  where  the  burro  creeps,  patient  and 

sure  and  slow, 
Above  a  valley  floor  that  sleeps  ten  thousand  feet 

below.  .  .  . 

Out  where  the  tumbling  schooner  fights  in  the  spume 
of  the  typhoon's  hate; 

Up  where  the  huskie  bays  the  lights  of  the  North- 
land's frozen  gate.  .  .  . 

Sun  and  wind  and  the  sound  of  rain!  Hunger  and 
thirst  and  strife! 

God!  To  be  out  on  the  trails  again  with  a  grip  on 
the  mane  of  life! 


THE  OUTLAND  TRAILS  ^7 

And  my  woman  sees  and  hides  a  tear,  for  the  cabin 

door  is  wide,  * 

Unshadowed  by  sons  that  return  no  more,  for  they 

sleep  in  the  ocean-tide, 
Or  out  on  the  desert  sand  unmarked  save  by  the 

rough-hewn  stake, 
For  they  died  like  men  on  the  outland  trails,  but  I 

stay  for  their  mother's  sake; 

Stay  .  .  .  and  dream  of  the  outland  trails  and  the 

songs  of  fighting  men; 
Stay  .  .  .  and  whine  like  a  hungry  whelp  to  go  out 

on  the  trails  again. 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 


A  CAMP 

The  bed  was  made,  the  room  was  fit, 
By  punctual  eve  the  stars  were  lit; 
The  air  was  still,  the  water  ran, 
No  need  was  there  for  maid  or  man. 
When  we  put  up,  my  ass  and  I, 
At  God's  green  caravanserai. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson 


DICKENS  IN  CAMP 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting, 

The  river  sang  below; 
The  dim  Sierras,  far  beyond,  uplifting 

Their  minarets  of  snow. 

The  roaring  camp-fire,  with  rude  humor,  painted 

The  ruddy  tints  of  health 
On  haggard  face  and  form  that  drooped  and  fainted 

In  the  fierce  race  for  wealth. 

Till  one  arose  and  from  his  pack's  scant  treasure 

A  hoarded  volimie  drew. 
And  cards  were  dropped  from  hands  of  listless  leisure 

To  hear  the  tale  anew. 

And  then,  while  round  them  shadows  gathered  faster, 

And  as  the  firelight  fell, 
He  read  aloud  the  book  wherein  the  Master 

Had  writ  of  "Little  Nell." 

Perhaps  'twas  boyish  fancy — for  the  reader 

Was  youngest  of  them  all — 
But,  as  he  read,  from  clustering  pine  and  cedar 

A  silence  seemed  to  fall; 


220  DICKENS  IN  CAMP 

The  fir-trees,  gathering  closer  in  the  shadows, 

Listened  in  every  spray, 
While   the   whole   camp   with   "Nell"   on    English 
meadows 

Wandered,  and  lost  their  way. 

And  so  in  mountain  solitudes — o'ertaken 

As  by  some  spell  divine — 
Their  cares  drop  from  them  like  the  needles  shaken 

From  out  the  gusty  pine. 

Lost  is  that  camp,  and  wasted  all  its  fire; 

And  he  who  wrought  that  spell? — 
Ah,  towering  pine  and  stately  Kentish  spire. 

Ye  have  one  tale  to  tell! 

Lost  is  that  camp!  but  let  its  fragrant  story 
Blend  with  the  breath  that  thrills 

With  hop-vines'  incense  all  the  pensive  glory 
That  fills  the  Kentish  hills. 

And  on  that  grave  where  English  oak  and  holly 

And  laurel  wreaths  entwine, 
Deem  it  not  all  a  too  presumptuous  folly — 

This  spray  of  Western  pine! 

Bret  Harte 


MY   "LEETLE   CABANB" 

I'm   sitten'    to-night   on   ma   leetle   cabane,   more 

happier  dan  de  king, 
An'  ev'ry  comer's  ringin'  out  wit'  musique  de  ol' 

stove  sing. 
I  hear  de  cry  of  de  winter  win',  for  de  storm  gates 

open  wide, 
But  I  don't  care  not'ing  for  win'  or  storm,  so  long 

I  was  safe  inside. 

For  I  look  on  de  comer  over  dere,  an'  see  it,  ma 

birch  canoe, 
I  look  on  de  wall  w'ere  ma  rifle  hang  along  wit'  de 

good  snowshoe. 
An'  ev'ry  t'ing  else  on  the  worl'  I  got,  safe  on  dis 

place  near  me. 
An'  here  you  are  too,  ma  brave  ol'  dog,  wit'  your 

nose  up  agen  ma  knee. 

William  Henry  Drummond 


LOVE  OF  THE  OPEN 

I  want  to  get  back  to  the  open,  » 

I  want  to  be  ridin'  the  range. 
For  the  last  few  months  I've  been  hopin* 

That  the  boss  would  give  me  a  change. 
This  takin'  cattle  to  market, 

It  sure  does  make  me  some  sad, 
For  I  love  best  my  old  saddle 

And  I  want  to  be  usin'  it  bad. 

There  ain't  any  fun  in  bunkin' 

In  a  dressed-up  room  near  the  sky. 
Where  the  noise  of  the  streets  never  ceases, 

Where  a  man  can't  close  an  eye. 
And  if  I  do  sleep  I'm  a-dreamin' 

Of  the  open  round  the  Two  Bars, 
And  I  forget  the  steel-girded  bunkhouse, 

And  I'm  sleepin'  out  under  the  stars. 

Oh,  the  nights  that  I've  spent  on  the  ranges! 

With  its  cool  air  that  kisses  your  cheek 
Like  a  girl  that  loves  you  would  kiss  you. 

Oh,  the  thoughts  that  a  cowboy  could  speak; 


LOVE  OF  THE  OPEN  223 

And  the  lyin*  down  in  the  grasses, 
And  the  watchin'  the  stars  overhead* 

And  the  hearin'  the  coyotes  waiHn'— 
Give  me  the  open  for  bed. 

Edwin  Heimbach 


THE   SOLITARY  WOODSMAN 

When  the  gray  lake  water  rushes 
Past  the  dripping  alder  bushes, 

And  the  bodeful  Autumn  wind 
In  the  fir-tree  weeps  and  hushes, — 

When  the  air  is  sharply  damp 
Round  the  solitary  camp, 

And  the  moose-bush  in  the  thicket 
Glimmers  like  a  scarlet  lamp, — 

When  the  birches  twinkle  yellow, 
And  the  cornel  bunches  mellow, 

And  the  owl  across  the  twilight 
Trumpets  to  his  downy  fellow, — 

When  the  nut-fed  chipmunks  romp 
Through  the  maples'  crimson  pomp, 

And  the  slim  viburnum  flushes 
In  the  darkness  of  the  swamp, — 

When  the  blueberries  are  dead. 
When  the  rowan  clusters  red. 

And  the  shy  bear,  simimer-sleekened. 
In  the  bracken  makes  his  bed — 


THE   SOLITARY  WOODSMAN  225 

On  that  day  there  comes  once  more 
To  the  latched  and  lonely  door, 

Down  the  wood-road  striding  silent, 
One  who  has  been  here  before.  ■ 

Green  spruce  branches  for  his  head, 
Here  he  makes  his  simple  bed, 

Couching  with  the  sun,  and  rising 
When  the  dawn  is  frosty  red. 

All  day  long  he  wanders  wide 
With  the  gray  moss  for  his  guide, 

And  his  lonely  axe-strokes  startle 
The  expectant  forest-side. 

Toward  the  quiet  close  of  day 
Back  to  camp  he  takes  his  way. 
And  about  his  sober  footsteps 
Unafraid  the  squirrels  play. 

On  his  roof  the  red  leaf  falls. 
At  his  door  the  bluejay  calls, 

And  he  hears  the  wood-mice  hurry 
Up  and  down  his  rough  log  walls. 

Hears  the  laughter  of  the  loon 
Thrill  the  dying  afternoon, — 

Hears  the  calling  of  the  moose 
Echo  to  the  early  moon. 

Charles  G.  D.  Roberts 


THE   CAMP-FIRE 

A  touch  sets  free  the  prisoned  rage, 
Like  angry  beast  from  riven  cage, 
And  darting  forth  in  fury  dire 
It  gluts  its  tongues  of  mad  desire; 
With  swirl  and  roar  and  frantic  blaze 
It  sweeps  the  brands  in  breathless  maze, 
Not  heeding  how  its  work  may  end, 
It  coverts  only  foes  to  rend: 
With  reckless  fling  from  fevered  blasts 
Aloft,  afar,  the  sparks  it  casts, 
As  if  in  sport  its  brood  to  toss, 
With  crazy  scorn  of  harm  or  loss. 

Then  quiet  grows  the  timiult  of  the  flame, 
Leaving  a  changeful  gloaming  in  its  train, 
Where  shifting  shadows  ever  wax  and  wane; 
Now  whispered  fancies,  now  a  whispered  name, 
Steal  softly  forth  and  swift  are  gone  again, 
And  silence  brings  a  vague,  delicious  pain. 

W.  Harry  Clemons 


THE   LAST  CAMP-FIRE 

Pile  on  the  pine  and  hemlock  boughs, 

Send  up  the  starry  shower; 
Ten  days  of  wildwood  friendship  be 

Concentrated  in  this  hour. 

To-morrow  comes  the  world  again, 

Its  paths  of  dark  or  light; 
To-night  we  draw  the  circle  close, 

And  every  face  is  bright. 

Kind  memories  more  than  hemlock  flames 

Across  our  foreheads  creep, 
And  underneath  these  placid  days 

Are  friendships  true  and  deep. 

The  camp-fire  is  a  vulcan  forge, 

Within  whose  throbbing  glow 
Are  welded  bands  that  will  not  break 

Till  Life's  tent  is  laid  low. 

How  hard  soe'er  old  Time  may  strike. 

Or  sudden  storms  may  brew. 
The  rivet-pins  of  kindly  thoughts 

Will  keep  this  circle  true. 


228  THE  LAST  CAMP-FIRE 

Around  Life's  camp  the  shadows  lie, 
And  dark  aisles  of  the  wood, 

And  ope  their  silent  mystery 
We  would  not  if  we  could. 

But  rather  face  to  face  we  turn, 

And  when  our  hope  declines 
We'll  trace  the  way  the  sparks  reveal 

Above  the  silent  pines. 

Then  pile  the  pine  and  hemlock  boughs. 

Send  up  the  starry  shower; 
Before  to-morrow's  battle  call 

Let  freedom  have  one  hour. 

Perchance,  when  the  last  battle's  fought. 

In  the  last  evening's  damp, 
Our  earthly  thought  of  heaven's  rest 

Will  be  this  Brule  camp. 

Charles  Lemuel  Thompson 


THE  HILLS 

Shall  I  leave  the  hills,  the  high,  far  hills 

That  shadow  the  morning  plain? 

Shall  I  leave  the  desert  sand  and  sage  that  gleams 

in  the  winter  rain? 
Shall  I  leave  the  ragged  bridle-trail  to  ride  in  the 

city  street — 
To  snatch  a  song  from  the  printed  word, 
Or  sit  at  a  master's  feet? 

To  barter  the  sting  of  the  mountain  wind  for  the 

choking  fog  and  smoke? 
To  barter  the  song  of  the  mountain  stream  for  the 

babble  of  city  folk? 
To  lose  my  grip  on  the  god  I  know  and  fumble 

among  the  creeds? 
Oh  rocks  and  pines  of  the  high,  far  hills. 
Hear  the  lisp  of  the  valley  reeds! 

Henry  Herbert  Knibbs 


l6 


ONE   MAN'S  SIZE   DAY 

When  you've  bent  beneath  the  pack-sack 

And  mushed  glumly  through  the  mud 
With  the  wet,  warped,  shrunken  leather 

Gouging  at  your  heel  for  blood; 
Plodded  grimly  through  the  gumbo 

Till  your  feet  were  balls  of  clay 
While  your  fifty  pounds  of  duffle 

Trebled  weight  along  the  way; 
Staggered,  panting,  o'er  the  portage, 

Fell,  and  cussed  the  whole  air  blue; 
Reached,  at  last,  the  longed-for  landing. 

Stowed  your  pack,  launched  your  canoe 
Just  to  have  a  cold  rain  catch  you; 

Paddled  hard  'gainst  wind  and  stream 
While  the  pure,  cold,  sparkling  raindrops 

Hit  your  hide  and  hissed  to  steam; 
Say,  there's  heaps  of  satisfaction, 

Tea  and  flapjacks  stowed  away 
And  your  old  pipe  filled  and  ftuning, 

Checking  off  One  Man's  Size  Day. 

C.  L.  Oilman 


IDEALISTS 

Brother  Tree: 

Why  do  you  reach  and  reach? 

Do  you  dream  some  day  to  touch  the  sky? 
Brother  Stream: 

Why  do  you  run  and  run? 

Do  you  dream  some  day  to  fill  the  sea? 
Brother  Bird: 

Why  do  you  sing  and  sing? 

Do  you  dream — 
Young  Man: 

Why  do  you  talk  and  talk  and  talk? 

Alfred  Kreymborg 


BOATING  UP  THE   OSWEGATCHIE 

Boating  up  the  Oswegatchie! — • 
Up  the  river  swift  and  strong — 

Flowing  here  with  silent  purpose, 
Which  to  noble  men  belong! 
Yonder  breaking  into  song! 

Lo,  the  sportive  finny  beauties! — 

Flecked  with  gold  and  silver  and  gray; 

Hiding  in  the  coolest  coverts — 

Leap  they  now  to  seize  their  prey — 
Leap  to  rue  the  fatal  day. 

Floating  on  the  Oswegatchie, 
In  the  fearful,  solemn  night! 

Start  we  at  the  scream  of  panther — 
Fly  the  red  deer  from  our  light 
Through  the  pines  of  templed  height. 

Camping  on  the  Oswegatchie! 

Spread  our  tents  like  angel  wings 

Altar-like  our  camp-fire  blazes. 
Piled  with  fragrant  offerings — 
Sweet  the  rest  that  Nature  brings! 

Lewis  V.  Randolph 


REBELLION 

To  wake  at  mom, 
And  hear  the  Httle  laugh 
Of  the  lake-wind  in  the  trees; 

To  watch  at  dawn 
The  earliest  sunbeam  kiss 
The  mist-crowned,  towering  peaks 
And  glide  down  to  the  plains. 

Ah,  that  is  Life! 
Not  this — 

To  wake  at  mom, 
And  hear  the  swelling  roar 
Of  Man,  Beast  and  Machine, 
Toiling  in  murky  air 

And  a  city's  sweat! 

At  noon  to  dream 
Where  Nature's  bowers  are  hid 

Beneath  an  arch 
Of  twined  and  intersticing  vines, 

While  on  the  air 
Quivers  the  chanting  of  the  sighing  woods. 
And  the  songs  of  mating  birds. 


234  REBELLION 

Ah,  that  is  Life! 
Not  this — 

At  noon  to  pause, 
And  lay  aside  the  pen  for  one  brief  hour: 
Then  to  return,  as  I  did  yesterday, 
Will  do  to-morrow  and  on  all  to-morrows — 

Oh,  Fool,  Machine,  and  Slave! 

Again  at  dusk. 
To  watch  the  sun's  last  ray 

Fade  in  the  west; 
To  feel  Earth's  grand  transition 

From  day  to  night — 
That  moment  when  the  world 
Pauses  and  knows  itself! 

The  Angelus  chimes 
And  echoes  'round  the  Earth; 

Here  the  Muezzin's  call, 

There  a  child's  lullaby. 
And  now  a  poor  serf's  prayer.  .  .  . 

Earth's  evensong! 

To  hear  that  is  to  live! 

Not  this— 
To  breast  the  roaring  surge 
Of  thousands,  pale  and  tired,  dead  in  soul, 
Crowding  with  merciless  haste  toward  home. 
Home?  .  .  . 
Past  ere  the  sweet  of  home  has  touched  the  sense ! 


REBELLION  235 

To  toil  that  we  may  sleep 

That  better  we  may  toil; 
To  toil  that  we  may  eat,  * 

That  better  we  may  toil. 
Ay,  that  is  Life;  but  still — 

But  still  we  dream! 

Stephen  Chalmers 


TO  THE  GODS  OF  THE  COUNTRY 

Sun  and  Moon,  shine  upon  me; 

Make  glad  my  days  and  clear  my  nights! 

O  Earth,  whose  child  I  am, 
Grant  me  thy  patience! 

O  Heaven,  whose  heir  I  may  be, 
Keep  quick  my  hope! 

Your  steadfastness  I  need,  O  Hills; 
O  Rain,  thy  kindness! 

Snow,  keep  me  pure; 

O  Fire,  teach  me  thy  pride! 

From  you,  ye  Winds,  I  ask  your  blitheness! 

Maurice  Hewlett 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


African  Game 

Autumn  Days 

Away !  to  the  Woodlands  Away ! 
Ball  and  the  Battue,  The     .     . 

Birch  and  Paddle 

Boating  up  the  Oswegatchie 

Call,  The       

Call  of  the  Wild,  The     .     .     . 

Camp,  A 

Camp-fire,  The 

Camp-fire  Club,  The       .     .     . 

Camping  Song,  A 

Camping  Song,  A 

Canadian  Camping  Song  .  . 
Canoe  Song  at  Twilight  .  . 
Canoe  Song  of  the  Jocko  River 
Canoe  Song  of  the  Milicetes  . 
Canoe  Song  of  the  North  .  . 
Climbing      the      Mountain's 

Rugged  Steep  .     . 
Come  to  the  Woods  . 
Coureur-de-bois,  The 
Darky  Himting  Song 
Dat  Beavarr       .     .     . 
Deer  Trapper,  The     . 
Dickens  in  Camp    . 
Double  Barrel,  The    . 


McLellan 

Drummond 

Brandreth 

Egerton-Warburton 

Roberts,  C.  G.D 

Randolph 

Fenton     . 

Service     . 

Stevenson 

demons 

Staff    .     . 

Carman  , 

Farrington 

Edgar 

McCuUy 

Underbill 

March     . 

Firkins    . 


Meany  . 
Cornish  . 
Baylis 
Dunbar  . 
Johnstone 
Palmer  . 
Harte 
Diedin 


PAGE 
96 

202 

55 
198 
121 
232 

51 

12 

218 

226 

23 

15 

57 

162 

50 

8 

142 

105 

42 
124 

53 
180 

139 
131 
219 

153 


238 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Feet  of  the  Young  Men,  The  . 

Kipling    . 

Flight  of  the  Geese,  The  .     .     . 

Roberts,  C. 

G.  D.    . 

Forest  Solitude        

Willdy     . 

Forty-three  Years 

McGaffey 

Guardian  of  the  Wilderness,  The 

Foster 

Gypsy  Song        

Dudley    . 

Half-Breed,  The 

Harrison 

Have  You? 

Dean  .     . 

HiUs,  The 

Knibbs    . 

Him  an'  Me 

Bacheller 

Hit  the  Trail 

Aubrey    . 

Hunter,  The 

Daskam  . 

Hunter  in  Camp,  The     .     .     , 

Adams     . 

Hunter's  Camp  at  Night,  The 

McLellan 

Hunter's  Moon,  The  .... 

Hitchcock 

Hunter's  Paradise,  The  .     .     . 

Stewart    . 

Hunter's  Song,  A 

Cheney    . 

Hunting  Song,  A 

Olcott      . 

In  Camp 

Welsh      . 

Idealists 

Kreymborg 

Indian  Basket  Weaver,  The  .     . 

Meany     . 

Indian  Wind  Song      .... 

McArthur 

Joy  to  Thee,  My  Brave  Canoe  . 

Anonymous 

Joys  of  Fowling,  The      .     .     . 

Anonymous 

Last  Camp-fire,  The    .... 

Thompson 

Meeko 

Johnstone 

Little  Bateese 

Drummond 

Little  Lac  Grenier 

Drummond 

Little  Lake  of  Azure       .     .     . 

Braley     . 

Lone-Land's  Lure,  A       ... 

Pitt     .     . 

Lost  Lagoon,  The       .... 

Johnson  . 

Love  of  the  Open       .... 

Heimbach    . 

Men  in  the  Rough      .... 

Chapman 

Miss  Pixie 

Roberts,  Llo 

yd 

Moose  Call,  The 

Adney 

. 

INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Morning  in  Camp       .     .     . 
Morning   in   the    North-west 
My  Comrade  Canoe    . 
My  Heart's  Desire 
My  "Leetle  Cabane" 
Night  in  the  Wilderness 
Night  Song  of  the  Camp 
North  Woods  Livin'   . 
O'  Rare  October  Days 
Old  Canoe,  The      .     . 
Old  Decoy  Duck,  The 
Old  Drummin'  Log,  The 
Old  Hunter's  Day  Dream,  An  . 
Old  Hunting  Coat,  The 
One  Man's  Size  Day  . 
Ovir  Camp-fire     .     .     . 
Our  Camping  Place    . 
Out  Where  the  West  Begins 
Outland  Trails,  The    , 
Over  the  Decoys    .     . 
Panther's  Trail,  The    . 
Portage  Trail,  The 
Progress  in  the  Rangeleys 
Rapid,  The    .     .     . 
Rebellion   .... 
Riders  of  the  Plains,  The 
Road  to  Fairyland,  The 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
Romance  Trail,  The   . 
Roosevelt  in  Wyoming 
Ruffed  Grouse,  The    . 
Sleeping  Out       .     .     . 
Socobie's  Passing    .     . 
Solitary  Woodsman,  The 
Song  My  Paddle  Sings,  The 


C. 


Bashford 
Stringer  . 
Roberts,  Wm. 
Knibbs     . 
Drummond 
Lampman 
Fiske  .     . 
Pratt  .     . 
Turner     . 
Pike    .     . 
Baker 
Hubert    . 
Whipple  . 
Anonymous 
Oilman    . 
O'Connell 
Spear 
Chapman 
Kjiibbs     . 
McGaffey 
DeMenil    . 
Pinkerton 
Bridges    . 
Sangster 
Chalmers 
Johnson  . 
Thompson  -Seton 
Chalmers 
Pitt     .     , 
Bridges    , 
BoUes 
Brooke 
Roberts,  Theo 
Roberts,  C.  G 


D. 


239 

PAGE 
188 

66 
200 
125 
221 
156 

91 
102 
210 

81 
177 

28 

68 
212 
230 

45 
164 

39 

215 

74 

.  40 

151 

48 
26 

233 

144 
179 

135 
141 
168 
204 

137 
189 
224 


Johnson 63 


240  INDEX  OF  TITLES 

PACE 

Song  of  the  Camp      ....  Pitt 197 

Song  of  the  Last  Bison,  The  .  Mair 19 

Song  of  the  Open  Camp,  The  .  Flagg 114 

Song  of  the  Open  Road      .     .  McQuilland       .     .     .  165 
Song     of     the     Wood's     Dog- 
watch, The Day 58 

Sport Anderson      ....  184 

Stampede,  The Cobum 170 

vSummer  Song,  A Felter 127 

Sylvan  Seductions Colt 46 

Taste  o'  Maine,  A      .     .     .     .  Tufts 84 

Tea Oilman 17 

To  a  Wood  Path Wilkinson     ....  157 

To  My  Camping  Friend      .     .  Kirk 89 

To  My  .450 Fletcher 24 

To  the  Oods  of  the  Country  .  Hewlett 236 

Unnamed  Lake,  The  ....  Scott 85 

Vagabond  Song Carman 104 

Wail  of  the  Ouide,  The       .     .  Clarke 34 

Wayfarer  of  Earth Roberts,  C.  G.  D.  .  61 

Wilderness  Call,  The       .     .     .  Sarett no 

With  the  Mallard  Drake     .     .  Anonymous      .     .     .  112 


FIRST  LINE   INDEX 

A  bed  of  ashes  and  a  half-burned  brand,  i88. 

A  cabin  in  a  forest  wilderness,  ii8. 

A  half-breed,  slim,  and  sallow  of  face,  183. 

A  thing  of  still  canvas,  dirt  spotted  and  torn,  212. 

A  touch  sets  free  the  prisoned  rage,  226. 

Above  the  pines  the  moon  was  slowly  drifting,  219. 

Ah!  list  the  music  of  the  whistling  wings,  184. 

AU  peacefully  gliding,  26. 

And  so  we  camped,  our  tent  pitched  low,  164. 

At  sight  of  him  the  birds  berate,  131. 

Boating  up  the  Oswegatchie,  232. 

Brother  Tree,  231. 

Can't  you  hear  the  woods  a-callin',  161. 

Climbing  the  mountain's  rugged  steep,  42. 

Dat  beavarr  ess  one  leetle  man,  139. 

Dat  leetle  IMeeko,  133. 

Did  you  ever  hear  the  story,  170. 

Did  you  ever  lounge  in  your  easy  chair,  46. 

Did  you  ever  meet  Miss  Pixie  of  the  Spruces?  36. 

Do  you  know  Yancey's?  168. 

Do  you  seek  the  road  to  Fairyland?  179. 

Down  in  the  west  the  shadows  rest,  50. 

Five  thousand  miles  of  hill  and  wood,  176. 

Forty-three  years  I've  followed  the  gun,  148. 

Friend,  those  delights  of  ours,  121. 

From  exile  to  my  kingdom  I  return,  vi 

From  the  faucets  of  the  fountain  and  the  bottles  of  the  bar,  17. 


242  FIRST  LINE  INDEX 

Glad  am  I  of  Life,  my  Lad,  79. 

Gray  countries  and  grim  empires  pass  away,  66. 

Has  your  dinner  lost  its  savor?    15. 

Have  you  ever  built  a  camp-fire  at  the  closing  of  the  day?  77. 

Have  you  gazed  on  naked  grandeur  where  there's  nothing  else 

to  gaze  on?   12. 
Have  you  heard  the  calling,  calling,  of  the  Distance,  51. 
Hear  me,  ye  smokeless  skies  and  grass-green  earth,  19. 
I  hear  the  low  wind  wash  the  softening  snow,  167. 
I  want  a  home,  a  perfect  dream,  107. 
I  want  to  get  back  to  the  open,  222. 
Ice  and  snow  incase  Chocorua,  204. 
If  you  have  heard  a  wolf  complaining,  175. 
I'm  sitten'  to-night  on  ma  leetle  cabane,  more  happier  dan 

de  king,  221. 
In  dreams  of  the  night  I  hear  the  call,  202. 
In  the  glimmering  light  of  the  Old  Regime,  53. 
In  the  hush  of  morn  in  the  fields  of  com,  127. 
In  the  pathless  woods  where  the  Jocko  flows,  8. 
In  the  thick  darkness  of  the  midnight  woods,  98. 
"Indian  maiden,  lift  my  rootlets,"  159. 
It  is  dusk  on  the  lost  lagoon,  191 
It  sleeps  among  the  thousand  hills,  85. 
It's  marked  by  a  blaze  grown  brown  as  the  trunk,  151. 
Joy  to  thee,  my  brave  canoe,  38. 
Leetle  Lac  Grenier,  she's  all  alone,  119. 
Let  jocund  mirth  beguile  with  song,  116. 
"Let  lovesick  swains,"  24. 
Low  lies  the  tawny  marsh,  and  lily-pads,  74. 
Many  autumns  now  have  vanished  since  my  brother  Tim 

and  I,  28. 
Men  in  the  rough — on  the  trails  all  new-broken,  214. 
Most  beautiful  those  roving  tribes,  96. 
My  head  grew  gray  on  the  outland  trails  where  I  stood  a 

man  with  men,  215. 


FIRST  LINE  INDEX  243 

My  heart's  desire  is  nothing  great,  125. 

Night's  sombre  mantle  hangs  uncertain  in  the  sky,  40. 

Not  for  me  the  rolling  oceans,  not  for  me  the  booming  seas, 

72. 
Now  the  Four-way  Lodge  is  opened,  3. 
O!  the  bountiful  sense  of  freedom  that  sweeps  through  the 

hunter's  breast,  31. 
O'   the  rare  days  of  October,  when  the  stubbles  are  all  bare, 

210. 
Of  all  the  joys  that  sporting  yields,  87. 
Oh,  for  a  day  in  the  white  wind's  cheek,  112. 
On  lakes  adream  our  paddles  gleam,  105. 
One  came  chasing  the  fallow  deer,  95. 
Out  of  the  land  of  the  ancient  bards,  135. 
Out  where  the  handclasp's  a  little  stronger,  39. 
Pile  on  the  pine  and  hemlock  boughs,  227. 
Shall  I  leave  the  hills,  the  high,  far  hills,  229. 
Sing  ho,  for  a  camp  on  the  mountain  top,  57. 
So,  in  defiance  of  all  our  time-worn  ways,  89. 
Socobie,  aged  and  bent  with  pain,  189. 
Spread  your  blankets  round  the  camp-fire,  91. 
Sun  and  Moon  shine  upon  me,  236. 
Tek  a  cool  night,  good  an'  clear,  180. 
The  autumn  sun  sinks  low,  43. 
The  bed  was  made,  the  room  was  fit,  218. 
The  good  fire-ranger  is  our  friend  to-night,  156. 
The  leaves  o'er  the  lea  arc  careering,  55. 
The  old  Earth-Mother  calls  us,  165. 
The  tote-road  beckons  through  the  pines!   84. 
The  wolf  of  the  winter  wind  is  swift,  10. 
The  yachtsman  sings  of  the  bounding  waves,  100. 
There  are  camp-fires  unkindled  and  songs  unsung,  141. 
There  is  something  in  the  Autumn   that  is  native   to  my 

blood,  104. 
There's  a  stillness  in  the  woodland,  68. 


244 


FIRST  LINE  INDEX 


There's  a  telephone  and  ping-pong  at  Grant's,  48. 

They  sleep  within,  137. 

'Tis  pleasant,  after  a  weary  tramp,  114. 

'Tis  the  weirdly  witching  hour  of  the  wood's  "dog-watch,"  58. 

To  shield  the  forests  from  men's  blighting  hands,  23. 

To  wake  at  mom,  233, 

True  comrade,  we  have  tasted  life  together,  200. 

Up,  heart  of  mine,  61. 

Up  in  the  naked  branches,  197. 

Up  whar  the  mountains  split  the  flyin'  clouds  in  two,  102. 

We'd  greased  our  tongues  with  bacon  'til  they'd  shy  at  food 

an'  fork,  192. 
West  wind,  blow  from  your  prairie  nest,  63  . 
When  round  the  Sportsman's  festive  board,  153. 
When  the  ducks  are  all  a-squawkin'  on  the  silver  lakes  at 

night,  no. 
When  the  gray  lake-water  rushes,  224. 
When  the  hour  of  meeting's  nigh,  124. 
When  the  hunter's  moon  imperious,  93. 
When  the  knowing  robins  build,  76. 
When  you've  bent  beneath  the  pack-sack,  230. 
Where  the  rocks  are  gray  and  the  shore  is  steep,  81. 
White  tent  pitched  by  a  glassy  lake,  162. 
Who  found  you  first,  157. 
Who  is  it  lacks  the  knowledge,  144. 
"  Whu-t-hawgn !  142. 
With  many  a  sea-worn  fragment,  45. 
Within  the  cobwebbed  loft  he  sits,  177. 
Ye  who  care  to  encourage  the  long-feather'd  breed,  198. 
Yo'  city  chaps  comes  ter  th'  woods,  34. 
You  bad  leetle  boy,  not  moche  you  care,  129. 


JAM  ^ 

DATE  DUE 

,^^             CAYLORO 

ntlNTCO  IN  US    A. 

PN6110   S65H3 

Haynes,    Williams,    1886- 

Camp-fire    verse. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    001  328  923 


7«Q»i^ 


